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Niamh Parsons
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Syracuse
I wrote me a letter to Syracuse. 'Twas a letter full of lies
I told them that we were doin' fine, very much to their surprise
For how were they to know that year the ground was burning red
And that we could fill the gullies with our dead?
Well I sorted it out and told them, at Christmas we begin to pack our bags
And head out home to bring the new year in
While all around me the boys who'd helped me sow last season's crop
Are charging on the cannon til they drop
Well I told my mother not to write 'cause we were moving on
And I told my brother not to join; he'd only find us gone
For if we keep on much farther, retreating all the way
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Why we'll all be going home just every day[?]
The shells sound like a piece of cloth that's torn by a nail on a floor
Which is only if you're a tailor, and that's not my trade at all
We're fighting for a hopeless cause; I know we're about to lose
So God help all the mothers in Syracuse
I wrote me a letter to Syracuse. 'Twas a letter full of lies
And I told them that we were doin' fine, very much to their surprise
For how were they to know that year the ground was burning red
And that we could fill the gullies with our dead?
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