September 17th, for a girl I know it's mothers day
Her son has gone alee and that's where he will stay
Wind on the weathervane, tearing blue eyes sailor mean
As Falstaff sings a sorrowful refrain for a boy in Fiddler's Green
His tiny, knotted heart, well I guess it never worked too good
A timber tore apart and the water gorged the wood
You can hear her whispered prayer for men at mass that always lend
The same wind that moves her hair, moves a boy through Fiddler's Green