By the windy shores o Canada bay I broke my fast for Lucia’s day,
A beguiling figure she blew my way & rattled me rovin’ heart,
The snipers crack, the metronome of pricy heels on polished stone,
That I were soon to call my own by way o’ the ancient art.
I were cozened by a whiff-o-the-whim that scours the Costa harryin’,
The likes o’ men who’ve lost the lamp, the rudderless and bewildered,
The sands below are littered wi’ bones o’ those who’ve taken a belly o’ stones,
And turned their backs on wives & homes to follow the black Matilda.
Ho-ro m’lovelies cross yer hearts & hope to die,
If e’er ye’re drawn beneath a murky fathom of her eye,
Ho-ro my lovelies kiss yer arse a fond goodbye,
Ye’ll never again be able to lift yer head so bloody high.