From "Black Bean"
Abigail Potts was the mason's daughter
Such a fair maid as I e'er did see
Happy was the day that
I asked her Da for her sweet young hand for to marry me
Then one day come a bearded Spaniard
Hair like strands of twisted peat
Vile was the day when his horse fell a-ailing
Right in the middle of the county seat
His fingers clad in the courtier's signet
His back was broad and his face was scarred
Cold was the day when found my Abby
Gathering heather in the old church yard
Now some men die for freedom
And some men die for love
And some men die
By the glass of rye
Or the dice in the matron's glove
And some men die from fevers
And some men die from thirst
But when I'm laid down
In the dark cold ground
It will be from the Spaniard
From the Spaniard's curse
Now the Spaniard knew not a trace of the Queen's tongue
His speech was strange and his language slurred
But the hundred crowns that he gave the mason
Spoke much louder than the Queen's own word
Now the mason knew I'm a poor thatcher
My love is strong but a throne it's not
I'm a meager match for a Spanish lord
I tend to my thatch and that's my lot
My heart was lower than the devil's hollow
When the Moor I saw with my true love's hand
Boarding on a ship for to take my Abby
Over many seas to the foreign land
Now some men die for freedom
And some men die for love
And some men die
By the glass of rye
Or the dice in the matron's glove
And some men die from fevers
And some men die from thirst
But when I'm laid down
In the dark cold ground
It will be from the Spaniard
From the Spaniard's curse
In the galleon's bilge was a golden coffer
Which held all the jewels that the Moor possessed
Abby in the night threw it o'er the bow
To the bottom of the sea went the Spaniard's chest
Hung from the prow she cry to the Spaniard
Now feel the pain of a true love lost
As he sunk to his knees and he cursed my name
She plunged to the waves all tempest-tossed
Poverty now was the Spaniard's scepter
And Abigail down with Davy Jones
And I, many years as a woeful thatcher
Cursed from my ears to my poor man's bones
Now some men die for freedom
And some men die for love
And some men die
By the glass of rye
Or the dice in the matron's glove
And some men die from fevers
And some men die from thirst
But when I'm laid down
In the dark cold ground
It will be from the Spaniard
From the Spaniard's curse
(Dan Avstreih - bass)
Copyright 2002 Zach London