They will come in the morning
They will come for me
They will bring me down
to the hangman’s tree
They will put me on a tall horse
Where I can be heard
They’ll read the judge’s sentence
and ask for my last words
Won’t you say a prayer
For my mother’s lost son
Now that my race is run
I was born on a dirt farm
Poor as poor could be
I took my Daddy’s pistol
and ran when I was fifteen
I stole a horse from rich man
And away I rode ‘
Till the law ran me down
In San Antonio
Won’t you say a prayer
When it all is done
Now that my race is run
Won’t you say a prayer
From my mother’s lost son
Now that my race is run

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS