Far away, beyond the distant horizon,
Where stories are told, once upon a time,
Beyond the boundaries of a memory's liaison,
A ballad was sung about a friend of mine.
Well, I ain't seen the movie and I ain't read the book,
But I did hear the rumour on the whispering wind,
It spoke of a heartache, if I ain't mistook,
And it left me feeling sad for a friend of mine.
This tale I will tell, and I take it to be true,
It tells of a maiden whose spirit was sublime,
You can call me a liar if you so wish to do,
But please don't make a liar of this friend of mine.
She adorned herself in the gowns of a lady,
She had a taste for elegance and looked so refined,
She held her grace in a heartful of mercy,
Held the love of an angel, did this friend of mine.
One dark stormy night, a stranger came calling,
He was looking for shelter from the howling wind,
He was soaked to the marrow and stood there a-shivering,
He beseeched for the pity of this friend of mine.
She invited him in to warm, his bones by the fire,
And she poured him a drink, I think it was wine,
He looked on her beauty, overcome with desire,
And he forced his advantage on this friend of mine.
When he left the next morning, she just sat there and wept,
Her dress was in tatters, it no longer looked fine,
She was left feeling dirty, defiled and distressed,
Depraved of her dignity, was this friend of mine.
She felt so degraded, her little heart was shattered,
And nothing could console the tears that she cried,
For this stranger had stolen everything that mattered,
He stole what was sacred to this friend of mine.
When she thought of her true love, serving his country,
Who fought for his king in a faraway clime,
A deep pensive, sadness filled melancholy,
Engaged the solemnity of this friend of mine.
And so she did ponder her profound emotions,
Sunk in the opinion that judged suicide,
To be the answer to her grief filled commotion,
I am told that she drowned herself, did this friend of mine.
This letter I hold now, as addressed to my attention,
The final reproach of a sorrowful mind,
It tells the story, it holds the rendition,
It performs the passion play of a friend of mine.
Now I look to the horizon and watch the sun setting,
Its blood-red reflection, on the tears that I cry,
I'm no longer betrothed nor bound to the maiden,
For dead is my sweetheart, this friend of mine.