(Shane MacGowan)

Sit down by the fire

And I'll tell you a story

To send you away to your bed

Of the things

You hear creeping

When everyone's sleeping

And you wish you

Were out here instead



It isn't the mice in the wall

It isn't the wind in the well

But each night they march

Out of that hole in the wall

Passing through on their way

Out of hell



They're the things that

You see when you wake up and scream

The cold things that follow you

Down the Boreen



They live in the small wing of

Trees on the hill

Up at the top of the field



And they dance on the rain

And they dance on the wind

They tap on the window

When no-one is in

And if ever you see them

Pretend that you're dead

Or they'll bite off your head

They'll rip out your liver

And dance on your neck

They dance on your head

They dance on your chest

And they give you the cramp

And the cholic for jest



They're in the things that

You see when you wake up and scream

The cold things that follow you

Down the Boreen



They live in the small wing of

Trees on the hill

Up at the top of the field



They play on the wind

They sing in the rain

They dance on your eyes

They dance in your brain



Remember this place

It's damp and it is cold

The best place on earth

But it's dark and it's old

So lie near the wall

And cover your head

Good night and God bless

Now fuck off to bed