Where birds once sang in glorious day ,
the Kings Cavelery have silenced when the red leaves fell .
Build the walls to the March of the drum ,
the King is on the run .
A safe haven with musket ball ,
to fire at parlementarian walls ..

You’re quiet havens shall go up in smoke ,
To garrison call ,
each one and all will turn their backs to the roar of burning timber .
you’re chickens and ducks shall be called to arms in the Kings name ,
  to chicken stew and soup .

You’re seats of learning will become palace grounds ,
and all around disease will abound .
You’re young will die ,
they won’t grow old ,
You’re young men with musket will carry , true and bold .

Build the Garrosen defend the walls ,
a musket ball ,
the fuse is lit ,
past the snake ,
through flesh and bone ,
cartelage and intestine ,
Where only maggots wait ,
to infections grisly bait ,
the musket ball .

Oh the trees without leaves ,
In darkness swayed ,
to the groans of soldiers grisley fate .

The King in cowards ruin fled when the moon was a howlin ,
and darkness creeps it’s blood on Godless men ,
who claim in Gods name an earthly rule .

A severed head on hay ,
to the tower it hung to this day ,
a country in ****** ruin .