The Gambler's Lot

It could often take the labour of several generations to build a sustainable life in rural Somerset. Years of sweat and hard labour in the hope that the inheriting generations would benefit. It seems so unjust that it could all be lost by the poor decisions of a single individual. I like to think in this song the woman’s love for the land would win.

What becomes of you my love? For I am to leave these lands. What becomes of the child I bore bare and bloody to your clan? I cannot now my bonny boy to my bosom hold his brow. I cannot now my dearest love be the wife of a gambling man.

And what becomes of my fathers home by the hands of his fathers made? What becomes of the fertile soil all turned by his ploughing blade? I cannot now my back to turn to face his land’s demise. I cannot now my dearest love keep vows as a gambler’s wife.

What becomes of my mothers ring with the ruby red as blood? What becomes of her wedding dress as white as the lily bud? I cannot now, my daughters own, pass down traditions made. I cannot now my dearest love be the wife to a gambler’s trade.

What becomes of my brother John for he is his father’s hand? What becomes of the farmer’s ways, the traditions of this land? I cannot now, my roots are deep, be taken from this life. I cannot now my dearest love be both proud and a gambler’s wife.

And what becomes of our marital bed where together we would lay? What becomes of my father’s herds? Where are they now to graze? I cannot now my bonny boy is taken to his plot... I cannot now my dearest love be the wife to a gambler’s lot.