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Chumbawamba

"The Bad Squire" (karaoke)

"The Bad Squire" (sheet music)


The merry brown hares came a-leaping

Over the crest of the hill,

Where the clover and corn lay a-sleeping

Under the moonlight so still.

Leaping so late and so early

Under their bite and their tread,

The swedes and the wheat and the barley

Lay cankered and trampled and dead.

 

A poacher's poor widow sat sighing

On the side of the moss patterned bank

Where under the gloom of the fir woods

One acre of ground laying rank.

She watched over barely-grown clover

Where rabbit or hare never ran

For the ground that it all covered over

Hid the blood of a good, murdered man.

 

She thought of the shaded plantation

And the hares and her husband's own blood.

And the voice of her own indignation

Rose up to the throne of her God.

There's blood on your new, foreign shrubs, Squire;

There's blood on your pointer's cold feet.

There's blood on the game that you sell, Squire,

And there's blood on the game that you eat.

 

You have sold out the laboring man, Squire,

Both body and soul for to shame,

To pay for your seat in the House, Squire,

And to pay for the feed of your game.

You made him a poacher yourself, Squire,

When you'd give not the work nor the meat.

And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden

At our starving, poor little ones' feet.

 

When packed into one tiny chamber,

Man, mother, and little ones lay,

While the rain pattered in on our bride bed

And the walls barely held out the day,

When we lay in the heat of the fever,

On the mud and the clay of the floor,

'Til you parted us all for three months, Squire,

And we knocked at the workinghouse door.

 

So, to kennels and liveried varlets,

Where you starved your own daughter of bread,

And worn out with liquor and harlots,

See your heirs at your feet lying dead.

When you follow them into your heaven,

And your soul rots asleep in your grave,

Then, Squire, you will not be forgotten

By the free men you took as your slaves.


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