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There's mischief in the eyes of peddlers
A love to dance in the hearts of meddlers
I'll trade steeds but never trade 'way my days
To be a working slave
A graceful road to a quiet grave
A merchant with a broomstick chasing my mother away

If I'm a goblin or a devil
Why do I send joy to the rabble?
Why do I fill your childrens' hearts with hope?
You send them to dreamland
Armed with lies that I have no fortune grand
Name me a working man
But I am not a slave
No I am not a slave, no

You set traps for the vultures
When they come for the dead

Over the hills, under the earth
Goodnight, city
Fiddles lilting

'Round the licks, a victory dance
Eat and drink and sing my children

And here is wealth!
Bread for the bakers
And goods from the makers

There's shoes not fit for their princes
But fit for we
Kings and queens
Oh, if you could taste our dreams

They're breeding strangers, bitter settlers
And there's mischief in the eyes of meddlers

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