High up on the hills A place for making noises Noises like the Whales Here she built a chapel with Her image on the wall A place where she could rest and A place where she could wash and listen to the wind blow She dreamt of children's voices And torture on the wheel Patron-Saint of nothing A woman of the hills She once was a lady Of pleasure, and high-born A lady of the city But now she sits and moans and listens to the wind blow I see her in her chapel High up on a hill She must be so lonely Oh Mother, can't we give A husband to our Catherine? A handsome one, a dear A rich one for the lady Someone to listen with
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