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See the ruin on the hill |
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Where the smoke is hanging still |
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Like an echo of an age long forgotten |
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There's a story of a home |
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Crushed beneath those blackened stones |
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And the roof which fell before the beams were rotten |
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Cecil Darby loved his wife |
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And he labored all his life |
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To provide her with material possessions |
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And he built for her a home of the finest wood and stone |
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And the building soon became his sole obsession |
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Oh, it took three hundred days for the timbers to be raised |
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And the silhouette was seen for miles around |
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And the gables reached as high as the eagles in the sky |
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But it only took one night to bring it down |
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When Darby's castle tumbled to the ground |
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Though they shared a common bed |
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There was precious little said |
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In the moments that were set aside for sleeping |
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For his busy dreams were filled |
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With the rooms he'd yet to build |
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And he never heard young Ellen Darby weeping |
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Then one night he heard a sound |
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As he laid his pencil down |
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And he traced it to her door and turned the handle |
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And the pale light of the moon |
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Through the window of the rooms |
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Split the shadows where two bodies lay entangled |
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Oh, it took three hundred days for the timbers to be raised |
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And the silhouette was seen for miles around |
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And the gables reached as high as the eagles in the sky |
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But it only took one night to bring it down |
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When Darby's castle tumbled to the ground |
