They never sang a poor song, Golden Bells, that they might wear a fine coat.

And they'd write what was true, wee mistress, were all the world to turn from them.

And I'm the laureate now, the court singer, living in my glory, and they're dead with their dreams.

I'm the last of the seven minstrels.

And, wee Golden Bells, I do be thinking long.
"And sometimes an old woman in the street or a man with gray in his hair will lift a song, and before the words come to me, there's a pain in my heart.
"And I go down to the drinking booths, and the passion of drinking comes on me--a fury against myself and a fury against the world.