The organ grinder

Where the signpost is at the street

Rich St. Mary's grass is growing.

There my mother's time came while

leading a homeless beggar's life.

While giving me my life

She lost hers

Where the signpost is at the street.

To the poorhouse I was brought

where my stomach rumbled day and night

until I was old enough to join

the traveling people.

By my side I carried a bag

and heaved the organ on my shoulder.

So I was a young organ grinder

Playing at everybody's door.

Where the signpost is at the street.

There a maiden came across the grass,

gathered up her skirts and jumped the ditches;

She, I thought, must be my lover.

So I charmed her and hinted at marriage,

She smiled and didn't say no.

So we became one

where the signpost is at the street.

Alas, my music earns just small coins!

Not enough to live, too much to die!

Six days out of seven it's fasting,

my songs are too well known near and far.

My smock is faded, my organ out of tune.

I wonder where I am heading to,

bowed down with age from house to house.

I'd better try and get a rest

where the signpost is at the street.