The Old Town of Newfoundland

Even mob's Bob stops
by the sad tune sobs
burnt by a shooting star
the sickly are looting the yard

cloaked by old age
mais aucun sage
pour les mal-traités!

Surrender, it's the ambassador
the fighter for muse's treachery
slash your eyes and adore
this way round the tree

And the scavengers!
now near your bed
some of them belles..
sneak in your head

All bread gone, as are the wives
and where are our knives?

As even mob's Bob stops
by the sad tune sobs
for near the land of shifty waves
there is no convening day.