| Song | Lorca's Novena |
| Artist | The Pogues |
| Album | Hell's Ditch |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Finer, MacGowan | |
| Ignacio lay dying in the sand | |
| A single red rose clutched in a dying hand | |
| The women wept to see their hero die | |
| And the big black birds gathered in the sky | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The years went by and then the killers came | |
| And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain | |
| And lorca the faggot poet they left till last | |
| Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The killers came to mutilate the dead | |
| But ran away in terror to search the town instead | |
| But lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away | |
| And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows |
| zuo ci : Finer, MacGowan | |
| Ignacio lay dying in the sand | |
| A single red rose clutched in a dying hand | |
| The women wept to see their hero die | |
| And the big black birds gathered in the sky | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The years went by and then the killers came | |
| And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain | |
| And lorca the faggot poet they left till last | |
| Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The killers came to mutilate the dead | |
| But ran away in terror to search the town instead | |
| But lorca' s corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away | |
| And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows |
| zuò cí : Finer, MacGowan | |
| Ignacio lay dying in the sand | |
| A single red rose clutched in a dying hand | |
| The women wept to see their hero die | |
| And the big black birds gathered in the sky | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The years went by and then the killers came | |
| And took the men and marched them up the hill of pain | |
| And lorca the faggot poet they left till last | |
| Blew his brains out with a pistol up his arse | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows | |
| The killers came to mutilate the dead | |
| But ran away in terror to search the town instead | |
| But lorca' s corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away | |
| And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying | |
| Mother of all our joys, mother of all our sorrows | |
| Intercede with him tonight | |
| For all of our tomorrows |