Elizabeth Clarke
And the wind blows hard,
But the scaffold never falls,
We hold our dirty, ugly faces to the rain.
All the good wives sway,
They heckle so profane,
They bring out all their beautiful babies in the rain.
Who's going to feed my dog?
Who's going to pray the rain away?
Who's going to pull on my ankles when I swing?
The one-legged lady's crutch is sinking in the mud,
Don't let our bodies touch, if we swing too much.
Let the rope be quick and fierce, let my neck snap fast, And if I fight too much, give me a little pull.
Who's going to dig my grave?
Who's going to wash the dirt away?
Who's going to spend the winter days, singing?
Who's going to feed my dog?
Who's going to pray the rain away?
Who's going to pull on my ankles when I'm swinging?
I've got no king, I've got no wedding ring,
I've got no hope, I've got no beautiful little baby of my own.