Necropolis, necropolis, city of the dead necropolis.

Necropolis, necropolis it must ever come to this.

The people there are always idle, their limbs are stiff and their eyes do stare.

The flesh does rot, and the smell is sickening and I wish I was far away from here.

A place of rest is this lonely city, but we poor lost souls are forced to wander, until the day we can walk no more.

My feet are sore and my legs are buckling from me and I wish I was far away from here.

Fog and dew, oh draft and rain, cover me and take my pain.

Flow on, flow on, you lovely river, away up stream the banks are delightful, the meadows green and the pretty small birds do change their voices and the air is clean and fit to breathe.

But here the banks are grey and lonely, and nothing grows to bring you joy, but for a small flower that grows among the the railings and brings hope among dismay.

When I die and can no more wander, when on the cold hard ground I lie, take that small flower and place it on me so that in death as in living it can me comfort bring.

But very soon it would be withered in my cold dead hand.

So cut me down some mighty oak trees, earnesty in to planks hew them, and shape them to a mighty hull.

Make me a barge, both swift and graceful, caulk it all up with hemp and tar.

Raise up, raise up a silk white sail and from the mast your banner fly.

Quickly then speed up the river, blow your trumpet and load the gun.

All the phatom crews in their death ships will not be able to catch you as you go rapidly sailing by.

Load me up from the cursed city and take me away for greener pastures far away.