Hanging - Craig Armstrong

It does not bring pleasure to my heart

To stand and deliver the sorrowful tale

Of the man who now stands in the rattling cart

With a mind full of woe and a belly full of ale

As God is my witness I shall weep with all of thee

When the drop fell comes and his legs kick the air

When the highwayman dances on the Tyburn gallows tree.

Tell me is there a man in all England

Who would trade his daily toil

For a breakneck speed

For a handsome lass

For a casket of jewels

And a life rich and royal.

Pounding hooves on moonlit mile

Flashing blade in fancies style

Lifting gold, lifting dresses,

Stealing rubies from princesses.

Oh for a week for a night and a day

For the rush of the wind and the pistol’s bray.

Sir!

For that life would you gladly be

A-dancing with the devil on the Tyburn gallows tree.

They call him the Gentleman Highwayman

They tell me he speaks with a plum in his throat

But how can you chatter in such high company

When you’ve shit in you britches and your neck’s in a rope

When you’re pissing and screaming and gasping for air

When your fine leather booties are carving the air?

You can dance blindfolded as your last dying plea

For you don’t need a teacher or a half-baked preacher

To learn you how to dance on the Tyburn gallows tree.

Gallows tree, gallows tree,

How do I love thee gallows tree?

Still as the dead

Silent as the sun

Master of all men

Lover of none

Silently waiting ne’er blushing nor chasing

No asker of secrets

No teller of lies

Right hand of blind justice

Old England’s best buttress

Cold handed deliverer

Feeder of flies

Accomplice to murder

Mother of shame

Gallows tree

Gallows tree

Bastard of history

Gallows tree

Taker of

Sweet James Macleane.