By the village gate stands Father Time
A scythe upon his arm
His crop is from the Wicker Man
A sacrificial charm
Oh why oh why does my lover lie
In the hollow so profound
His face so pale, his breath so faint
He sleeps without a sound
Too and fro and back and forth
The village gate, the village gate
I pledged my troth to Death the King
How much longer must I wait
How much longer must I wait