They say on nights so very still,
Sabine will come – oh, yes, she will.
Holding babe to bony chest,
she never rests; she never rests.
Strain your ears, and you can hear:
I didn’t kill; I didn’t kill.
There are those who’ve felt the chill
just before the raven’s trill
to warn bystanders all around,
“don’t make a sound, not a sound.”
Strain your ears, and you can hear;
I didn’t kill; I didn’t kill.
The night her baby’s blood did spill,
‘twas the night Sabine grew ill.
As she clawed with all her might,
screams rent the night, rent the night.
Cover your ears, or you will hear;
I didn’t kill; I didn’t kill.
They found her sitting on a hill,
at dawn, near the old grist mill.
Sabine rocked a baby, stone-cold dead,
with eyes of lead, with eyes of lead.
Strain your ears, and you can hear;
I didn’t kill; I didn’t kill.
The judge signed ‘death’ with a quill;
Sabine sat in chains against her will.
Hung by the neck, she gave a gasp,
her voice a rasp, her voice a rasp.
Strain your ears, and you can hear;
I didn’t kill; I didn’t kill.
Sabine is searching, searching still,
knife inside her coat of twill.
She vowed vengeance at her trial;
on a savage man so vile, so vile.
Strain your ears, and you can hear;
I will kill; I will kill.
