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Our master's gone; we've stole our master's horses |
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And stole away, running |
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If we return we shall be drawn and quartered |
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At Tyburn cross, hung |
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The ladies fair who ride the skies above us |
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Will come to swing their whips |
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To lash the backs of all the painted gentry who |
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Have burned runes black. |
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If I cross the river will you cross the river or drown |
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In this desert, this empty cup we're drinking from? |
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If we are beasts we are not beasts of burden |
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If we are wolves then why be oxen |
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So ride alone or ride with many others |
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Just ride away as fast as you can |
