When a child he lived in poverty, Wealth developed in his mind.
Handsome, pale, aristocratic ancestry, Byron was his name.
Cambridge days, those were the crazy days, He, the leader of a new way.
Profile posed against a stormy, windy sky, A symbol for the brave.
One thousand cups of gold,
Many,
The stories told,
So many heroes alive.
He no one could control,
Earth was no home to him,
Pride is the place of his soul,
Pride is the place of his soul.
England in the 19th century,
Had condemned him as depraved,
With his exile his extravagance,
Was paid while the public raved.
Water city of the heart,
He chose,
Venice lover and a friend.
A crazy caravan,
Countess,
Monkey and dogs,
He set a gypsy trend.
One thousand cups of gold,
Many,
The stories told,
So many heroes alive.
He no one could control,
Earth was no home to him,
Pride is the place of his soul,
Pride is the place of his soul.
My daughter,
With thy name this song begun,
My daughter,
With thy name thus much shall end,
I see thee not, I hear thee not
But none can be so rapt in thee
Thou art the friend to whom the shadows of far years extend
With the poets that will never die
Nor the ones moving to Greece
In the ancient waters, ancient battle zone
Byron, rest in peace