Foreign Fields

My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying bird,
Has flown from out my arms,
I thought myself her keeper,
She thought I meant her harm
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
Sober in the morning light
Things look so much different
To how they looked last night
As whispers circulate all day
Their back-stage baby princess passed away
The white walls of your dressing-room are stained in scarlet red
You bled upon the cold stone like a young man
In the foreign field of death
My high-flying bird
Has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harm
She thought I was the archer
A weather-man of words
My high-flying bird
Has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harm
She thought I was the archer
A weather-man of words
But I could never shoot down
My high-flying bird
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying, high-flying bird,
My high-flying, high-flying bird
The white walls of your dressing-room are stained in scarlet red,
You bled upon the cold stone like a young man,
In the foreign field of death