He’ll be out there on the meadows
Growing flowers and weeds
On those distant windy meadows
He’ll be sowing the seeds
No riches No splendour
No wonders of the sleep
Just truthful and tender
and destined to believe
That the world is for the righteous
the wrong-doers and the thieves
And the smallest of the skylarks
in the cold autumn breeze
He’ll be out there on the alleys
With the homeless and the poor
He’ll be dreaming of paradise
For the lost and the few
No riches No splendour
No wonders of the sleep
Just truthful and tender
and destined to believe
That the world is for the righteous
the wrong-doers and the thieves
And the smallest of the skylarks
in the cold autumn breeze
He’ll be out there he’s the hobo
He’s the man who agrees
With the world and all its creatures
All his skylarks in the breeze
No riches No splendour
No wonders of the sleep
Just truthful and tender
and destined to believe
That the world is for the righteous
the wrong-doers and the thieves
And the smallest of the skylarks
in the cold autumn breeze
In the cold autumn breeze