Up on poppy hill they say, where no animal makes a sound.
No children wander off to play, just poppies all around.

If I recall between you and I, In that bright red field of flowers.
Like a crimson wave, a scarlet sea, hides stories full of powers.

For it was up on poppy hill, you know, in the red fields there yonder.
Where you might see the lonely widow, as she often starts to wander.

They say, those fields saw much war, long before the poppy flood.
Where men they fought like never before, and the fields were strewn with blood.

And the widow always sings a song, dancing for her long lost lover.
She'll do this often, all night long, for they really loved each other.

She'll walk those fields so brilliant, just a shadow among the red.
And each poppy stands resilient, for the soldiers that had bled.

The lonely widow sings alone, their once beloved tune.
And the poppy heads will dance along, in the light of the moon.

Even in grief, she looks so fair, as she glances at the sky.
The wind strokes fingers through her hair, but still she doesn't cry.

You see, each night she will rendezvous, with the husband she did love.
And each night he would meet her too, as he watches from above.

So they say that up on poppy hill, is a lonely, ghostly bride.
She'll dance and sing forever still, where her soldier lover died.