Текст: Pogues, The. Haunting.

:
Sit down on that stool hear the cant of a fool

And a strange tale I'll impart to ye

Of a time that I lived at the buff of a hill

'Neath the burial chambers you see



One Saturday night I got up on my bike

To go to a dance in the town

I set off at seven to be there at eleven

No thought of the rain coming down



As I pushed up the hill the rain started to spill

So for shelter I had to resort

Helter skelter I went as downhill I sped

To the trees at the old fairy fort



I pulled up my bike be a tree in the gripe

To find shelter out of the storm

The rain it came down and like stones beat the ground

But it was grand to be dry in that storm



I was dreaming away about better days

When a voice it says dirty ould night

I fell over me bike I got such a fright

When the ghostly voice bid me the night



I jumped up with a start gave the storm not a thought

As the hail beat a rhythm on me

And I stared at the tree that had spoken to me

Not a body was there I could see



The voice I had heard not another word said

As the hair on the head stood on me

And I said an "Our Father" as I peddled much faster

Away from that ghost haunted tree



For weeks and weeks after with nerves a disaster

Nowhere near that road would I go

And from dusk through the night I would shake with the fright

Of the tree that had haunted me so



Now whenever I go to a dance in the town

I make sure not to stop on the way

To be there for eleven I still leave at seven

But I go by a different way