Wade in, wade in, where the river runs
Clear in the moonlight over the stones!
It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the gossips of fame, and who
By the Sinners' Litany are you?
Wade in, wade in! The water is cold,
The stains are deep, and the linen is old;
But surely the sons of the town are bold!
Work for us here till the break of day
At washing the stains of the dead away,
And you shall be merry, come what may!
From now till your ninetieth year begins,
You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins,
While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins.
Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried,
To dangle like fenders over the side
Of an empty ship on the harbor tide!
They shall gather a waist in their grip no more,
As you wander the wide world over and o'er,
With the curs at your heels from door to door.
With only a stranger to cover your face,
You shall die in the streets of an outcast race,
And your linen be washed in the market-place!
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the Scavenger Saints, but who
In the name of the Shadowy Kin are you?