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Lonesome Glen: Ballad of the Hanging Outlaw 1 by James

SongGPT
Lonesome Glen: Ballad of the Hanging Outlaw 1 by James - country,male vocals music cover art

Lonesome Glen: Ballad of the Hanging Outlaw 1

country,male vocals

0:003:45
Lyrics
Description
[Verse 1]
They dragged me out past Dry Creek's church bell ring,
Floorboards creak where the old men used to sing.
A crescent scar runs cold across my jaw,
I keep a silver dollar with an 'M' I stole in law.
Saloon dust taste, gunpowder in my coat,
Molly Mae's lullaby is a line I still don't quote.
The moon looks meaner than the judge tonight,
And the wind smells of rope and last night's fight.
[Chorus 1]
Don't ask me for forgiveness from the living down below,
I beg not for hands that clap or eyes that show.
Forgive me, ghosts, I'm kneeling where the cold winds blow,
Not for mercy from the living—but mercy from the ghosts I know.
[Verse 2]
They set the gallows where the wheat fields used to bow,
A whistle from the station fades into the plow.
My spurs still click like a sins-measured metronome,
Every echo in town says I won't be going home.
There’s a child's shoe tucked under a cotton bale,
Molly Mae's name on a scrap, my memory turned pale.
I remember the taste of coin and cheap whiskey grins,
Now the taste is iron right behind my sins.
[Chorus 2]
Don't ask me for forgiveness from the living down below,
The crowd holds its breath, but it's the dead I owe.
Their faces sharpen like stars through a winter storm,
Not for mercy from the living—but mercy from the ghosts I formed.
[Bridge — ghost voices, distant]
(Whisper: "You left us in the dark.")
(Cold voice: "You took what light we had.")
(Child: "You took my bike, you stole my laugh.")
(Woman: "You left my husband in the pass.")
As the noose draws tight, my heartbeat slows,
The cold rope smells like rain and the track where the river goes.
I close my eyes and every wrong I've known is a face that grows,
The saloon bell counts the beats, and every memory shows.
[Chorus 3 — with voices]
Don't ask me for forgiveness from the living down below—
(Voice: "Please don't hide behind tears.")
I beg for mercy from the ghosts that won't let go—
(Voice: "You owe us songs you never played.")
Hear them speak in the hush as the night takes my breath:
"We were the lost, you were the hand, we are the ledger of death."
Not for mercy from the living—but mercy from the ghosts I see.
(Collective whisper: "Not from the living. Not from the law.")
[Outro]
The hangman's whistle threads the dark, slow and low,
Dry Creek's bell tolls out like a sorrowed echo.
They'll hang a name, they'll write a line in the town's thin book,
But the jury that sits in shadow will never look.
Under starlight, under rope, under whispered pleas,
I go where the ghosts keep the tally of my deeds.
The saloon door swings once and the pedal steel cries free,
Lonesome Glen swallows the last of me—mercy from the ghosts is all I see.
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