Christopher Smith: Songs
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~A Gothic Waltz~
The Gravedigger's Boy
When the lamps are trimmed low and the fiddle plays sweet,
He stands in the corner, looks down at his feet
As the partners take hands and glide 'cross the floor,
He's got no one to dance with, He don't ask anymore
He's the gravedigger's
boy, the gravedigger's boy
Won't somebody dance with the gravedigger's boy?
He's got dirt on his shoes, got dust in his lungs,
And his face, it is brown from the cruel midday sun.
Though he smiles only seldom, he's not as bleak as he seems.
He's got love for that fiddle. He's got Lazarus dreams
He could stand there forever
So silent and still
Cus he knows that in time
Every hole shall be filled
Sure as sickness steals in, long as cannons will roar,
the gravedigger's boy won't be done with his chores.
Still he strolls out some evenings, past wrought iron gates,
to the Saturday social, where he listens and waits.