Surely a house so strong and bold, (The wind is rising, my son,) Will last till Time is a pinch of mould! There is a ghost, when the night is old. There is a ghost who walks in the cold. (The trees are shaking, my son.)

The sisters sleep on Liberty’s breast, (The thunder thunders, my son,) Like thirteen swans in a single nest. But the ghost is naked and will not rest Until the sun rise out of the West. (The lightning lightens, my son.)

All night long like a moving stain, (The trees are breaking, my son,) The black ghost wanders his house of pain. There is blood where his hand has lain. It is wrong he should wear a chain. (The sky is falling, my son.)