There's a place I've been told, and when I grow old I may go there
I've been told that my family's bones may lie under the snow there
And with my little bag, and with my little dog
Who sleeps on my chest when he can't find a hole in a log
And when I go, my dog will know to leave his old fellow and find a new pillow, far from the chill of the cold acre
Now there's a Hillydale here and a Lilydale there where there's joy in the living, in voices that ring in the air
I'd stay there but sooner or later I'd have to go, where I don't know
But when a dog knows it's on him he doesn't ask why he just goes
And when I go my bones will know, to pick up and follow the wagon that rolls on the cold acre...
My heart is a cold acre, in my chest is a cold acre
I don't grow any good anymore though I've seeded my soul with
All kinds of love, that it aches so...
Though I wake from them mouthing they leave me not able to talk
These dreams are not nightmares but realms I've been choosing to walk
With my little bag, and with my little dog
Who rests on my stomach and barks at the oncoming fog
O but when I go, with my lot in tow
Like a vampire carry my piece of the earth to the place of my death from the plots of my birth...
My heart is a cold acre, in my chest is a cold acre
I know any good anymore from the bad except there's one that you have and one that you had
O grow, grow, grow, grow, grow
And plant me in the only place I know
That's the Cold Acre
