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When you reach Old Weeping Hill
Birds are mute, the land stands still
Children play with candlelight
Elders fear the cursed sight

Through the night, all winter long
One can hear an ancient song
Carried by the northern breeze
Blood and bones and heart would freeze:

"Follow, follow, follow me
Follow to the hanging tree
Raise the black flag, ring the bell
Time has come to say farewell"

"Bring the fire, bring the rope
There's no future, there's no hope
Hang 'em fast and hang 'em high
Time has come for you to die"

Sifting through the hard dried mud
There it feeds on flesh and blood
Bodies swinging to and fro
Death is near, so sings the crow:

"Follow, follow, follow me
Follow to the hanging tree
Raise the black flag, ring the bell
Time has come to say farewell"

"Bring the fire, bring the rope
There's no future, there's no hope
Hang 'em fast and hang 'em high
Time has come for you to die"

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