Come gather round me children, a story I will tell
I´ve been around since Jesus met the woman at the well
I´ve walkes these roads ten thousand years, I´m a ragtime millionaire
I am the rake and the ramblin saint, the man from god knows where.
Oh, they hung me in Downpatrick, up near St.Patrick´s tomb
But my ghost rose up in the peat fire smoke toward the rising of the moon
Now as I drift through your villages, all the maidens stop and stare
There goes old Tom the vagabond, the man from god knows where.
So its rise up all you ancestores, and dance upon your graves
I´ve come to hear your voices now so maybe I´ll be saved
Cursed are we who forget the past, but pray and don´t despair
My song is might haunt your dreams tonight, I´m the man from god knows where
I´ve slept beneath your bridges near your oil refineries
I´ve gambled on your river boats, Shenandoha; Kanakee
I´m the homeless lad, I´m the orphan child, leaves of grass sewn through my hair
Yeah, me and old Walt Whitman, we´re the men from god knows where
I´ve rode the rods on steam trains with a banjo on my knee
While the ghost of Stepan Foster whispered lines to me
Of the storefront curch and the chain gang choir; Black sorrow filled the air
Then Stephen died on a dross house floor, like a man from god knows where
I´ve heard the sound of Indian drums, I´ve heard the bugles blow
Before they re-wrote history, into a Wild West show
My kin sailed toward America to steal their Indian ground
They passed bill Cody´s ships, European bound
So lock up all your daughters, your whiskey and your gold
I have come to claim my bounty, for the lies that I´ve been told
And as I look out on this crowd tonight, I see most of you don´t care
Come lift your glass, reveal your past, to the man from god knows where...
I´ve been around since Jesus met the woman at the well
I´ve walkes these roads ten thousand years, I´m a ragtime millionaire
I am the rake and the ramblin saint, the man from god knows where.
Oh, they hung me in Downpatrick, up near St.Patrick´s tomb
But my ghost rose up in the peat fire smoke toward the rising of the moon
Now as I drift through your villages, all the maidens stop and stare
There goes old Tom the vagabond, the man from god knows where.
So its rise up all you ancestores, and dance upon your graves
I´ve come to hear your voices now so maybe I´ll be saved
Cursed are we who forget the past, but pray and don´t despair
My song is might haunt your dreams tonight, I´m the man from god knows where
I´ve slept beneath your bridges near your oil refineries
I´ve gambled on your river boats, Shenandoha; Kanakee
I´m the homeless lad, I´m the orphan child, leaves of grass sewn through my hair
Yeah, me and old Walt Whitman, we´re the men from god knows where
I´ve rode the rods on steam trains with a banjo on my knee
While the ghost of Stepan Foster whispered lines to me
Of the storefront curch and the chain gang choir; Black sorrow filled the air
Then Stephen died on a dross house floor, like a man from god knows where
I´ve heard the sound of Indian drums, I´ve heard the bugles blow
Before they re-wrote history, into a Wild West show
My kin sailed toward America to steal their Indian ground
They passed bill Cody´s ships, European bound
So lock up all your daughters, your whiskey and your gold
I have come to claim my bounty, for the lies that I´ve been told
And as I look out on this crowd tonight, I see most of you don´t care
Come lift your glass, reveal your past, to the man from god knows where...