My brother He won't be home to father He sold his dope on the streets of Rome Now that is where his ashes are blown Now my mother works in the fields alone My father, he cried to the moon I took my brothers book a bound I put my brothers words to sound Every word it rang well In the name of Isabella Estelle I am alone on the moor The arrows and bows Flow free through thy blood He won't be home to father He swung his axe through the fields of Rome Now that is where his ashes are blown.