Bells of Notre Dame Lyrics
| Song | Bells of Notre Dame |
| Artist | Dark Moor |
| Album | The Hall of the Olden Dreams |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Garcia | |
| Born in a sorry cot, left on the stairs of the cold stone; | |
| Damned to be scorned, in darkness, damned to be alone; | |
| Taken by the Church, his soul will be slave of God; | |
| In the belfry's beauty is his figure something odd. | |
| We see the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Dancing on the tallest towers | |
| Arcades and spires, filling his heart, | |
| Deep like the choir, fine like the art | |
| Is the place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God's home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body prisions my poor soul, | |
| Until I toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I'm the sound of Notre Dame | |
| In the Wheel of Life he is a horror for the crowd, | |
| When will be the time he'll see the sun between the clouds? | |
| Looking at the bells he thinks about his tragic fate | |
| Wants to be a rock or metal like his souless mates | |
| We hear the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Crying on the tallest towers | |
| Gargoyles and columns, his relity; | |
| Chants wich are solemn, his agony | |
| Is this place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God's home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body imprisons my poor soul | |
| Until i toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I'm the sound of Notre Dame |
| zuo qu : Garcia | |
| Born in a sorry cot, left on the stairs of the cold stone | |
| Damned to be scorned, in darkness, damned to be alone | |
| Taken by the Church, his soul will be slave of God | |
| In the belfry' s beauty is his figure something odd. | |
| We see the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Dancing on the tallest towers | |
| Arcades and spires, filling his heart, | |
| Deep like the choir, fine like the art | |
| Is the place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God' s home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body prisions my poor soul, | |
| Until I toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I' m the sound of Notre Dame | |
| In the Wheel of Life he is a horror for the crowd, | |
| When will be the time he' ll see the sun between the clouds? | |
| Looking at the bells he thinks about his tragic fate | |
| Wants to be a rock or metal like his souless mates | |
| We hear the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Crying on the tallest towers | |
| Gargoyles and columns, his relity | |
| Chants wich are solemn, his agony | |
| Is this place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God' s home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body imprisons my poor soul | |
| Until i toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I' m the sound of Notre Dame |
| zuò qǔ : Garcia | |
| Born in a sorry cot, left on the stairs of the cold stone | |
| Damned to be scorned, in darkness, damned to be alone | |
| Taken by the Church, his soul will be slave of God | |
| In the belfry' s beauty is his figure something odd. | |
| We see the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Dancing on the tallest towers | |
| Arcades and spires, filling his heart, | |
| Deep like the choir, fine like the art | |
| Is the place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God' s home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body prisions my poor soul, | |
| Until I toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I' m the sound of Notre Dame | |
| In the Wheel of Life he is a horror for the crowd, | |
| When will be the time he' ll see the sun between the clouds? | |
| Looking at the bells he thinks about his tragic fate | |
| Wants to be a rock or metal like his souless mates | |
| We hear the hunchback in Notre Dame | |
| Crying on the tallest towers | |
| Gargoyles and columns, his relity | |
| Chants wich are solemn, his agony | |
| Is this place my cell, is it? | |
| Is God' s home my hell? | |
| Oh, my body imprisons my poor soul | |
| Until i toll! | |
| I am grim, full of gloom | |
| In my dim gothic tomb | |
| But the bells in my heart chime for ever | |
| With the ding that belongs | |
| To the king of their songs | |
| I' m the sound of Notre Dame |
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