It is comforting to know that for every square-jawed clean cut hero, there are half a score of skulking villains just waiting for an old windbag like Thomas Grey to write a verbose ballad about them.

Owen's pressgang came for me
Hauled me from my mother's knee
Scarcely whelped and scarcely weaned
Down from the hills returning

With crows and convicts cold unkempt
Ten long weary years I spent
To all my long lost gods I sent
From Dyfeds windy marches my lament

Owen's sword is red with rust
Owen's standards grey with dust
Are Owen's prop and Owen's crutch
No thanks to his barber surgeon

Owen's quartermasters bold
Own us body sword and soul
They cut our rations steal our dole
Giving Owen ten percent of the profit in gold

Owen's praise demands my song
Owen right or Owen wrong
Owen's soldiers curse and brood
Short of money short of food
He owes them long arrears of pay
And he'd better watch his back
When we catch him off his guard someday

Owen's praise demands my song
Owen's minstrels play too long
Owen's pages pale and young
Firm of thigh and deft of tongue
Omens show that come what may
He'd better watch his back
When we catch him off his guard someday

Owen's wife the soldiers sing
Fair of grace and lewd of wink
Will oft by night to the sentries slink
Down by the campfires burning

Stealthy now to the guardhouse creeps
While Owen's drunk and Owen sleeps
Shakes the cup with practiced ease
To dice till dawn and the grumbling watchmen fleeced

Owen's praise demands my song
Owen swift and Owen strong
Owen vain and Owen proud
Owen's laughter shrill and loud
Owen's dues in time we'll pay
And he'd better watch his back
When we catch him off his guard someday

Chords:
Intro./Verse E G A G A E G A G E
Chorus D E
Instr. A D A E A D A E A