Who is this that stands before me? With a candle at its end.
There's a fire in the wheat field, and a storm around the bend
There's strangers out a prowling around the great harvests of hay
So gather all your family, and send them all away
Then to your youngest daughter, hide her smiles, hide her curls
For the master is a drunkard, and he'll sell her off for pearls
Hide her from the vile work beasts, cover her ears from the screaming world
The master is a drunkard, and he'll sell her, and he'll sell her
And he'll sell her off for pearls
Who goes before the tyrant? Wielding innocents like fools
You'll need a thousand armies, and a tale to tell your troops
Tell a tale of harsh oppression, and the will to thrive again
How you master is a bastard, how his day will see its end
And when they start to falter, bring their hearts to the carving knife
And I will not wince in sorrow, Sir you did not take a life
For on the final day of lashings, you own the wardenship of their souls
Captured black and by your harness
Set free in the wintry, set free in the winter, set free in the wintry cold
You say your master is a bastard, and you cannot stand his yoke
If your master is a bastard, take a knife up to his throat
And there's no need to scold your daughter, when she overturns the stone
For there's no comfort in a dark house, no harmony is torpid clothes[?]
Your bones are rickety hinges, your back a rusty tin
So you shambled to your bedside, found your wife in bed with him
If your master is a drunkard, don't bring him wine or pour
If your master is a drunkard, escape to freedom, escape to freedom
Escape to freedom while he snores