| <Iris DeMent> page <The Trackless Woods> album page |
Not With DesertersNot with deserters from the battleThat tears my land do I belong To their coarse praise I do not listen They shall not have from me one song Poor exile, you are like a prisoner to me Or one upon a bed of sickness Dark your road, O wanderer Of wormwood smacks your alien bread Here into smoke and fires that blacken Our lives, the last of youth, we throw Who, in the years behind us, never Sought to evade a single blow Poor exile, you are like a prisoner to me Or one upon a bed of sickness Dark your road, O wanderer Of wormwood smacks your alien bread We know that in the final reckoning No hour will need apology No people in the world are prouder More tearless, simpler, than are we Poor exile, you are like a prisoner to me Or one upon a bed of sickness Dark your road, O wanderer Of wormwood smacks your alien bread |