By the banks of the river, where the willows hang down
And wild birds they warble, with a low moaning sound
Way down in the hollow, where the river runs cold
It was there I first listened, to the lies that you told
Now I lie on my back, and I see your sweet face
The past I remember, time can’t erase
And the letters you wrote me, they were written in shame
And I know that your conscience, still echoes my name
Now if the ladies were blackbirds, if the ladies were thrushes
I’d lie there for hours, in the chilly cold marshes
And if the women were squirrels, with them high bushy tails
I’d fill up my shotgun, with rock salt and nails
I’d fill up my shotgun