The Hunter Dunne

John Dunne was a hunter, he hunted wanted men

If they'd a price upon their head John Dunne went after them

He took the posters at their word when they said alive or dead

Nobody tries escaping with a bullet in their head

And when he died, he died alone, the way he'd spent his years

No bells were rung, no songs were sung, nobody shed a tear

No keening and no flowers, no hearse to bring him home

John Dunne was a hunter and John Dunne died alone

John Dunne made his living fighting other people's wars

He neither knew nor cared what causes he was fighting for

Whoever paid his wages bought his loyalty and mind

When John Dunne went to work he left his heart and soul behind

And when he died, he died alone, in some god-forsaken hole

No funeral oration, just curses on his soul

Supper for the scavengers was how he met his end

John Dunne was a mercenary and he died without a friend

John Dunne he sold armaments, to anyone who'd buy

The deal was cash, no questions asked, no how or who or why

No mercy for the living, no conscience for the dead

Good or bad or right or wrong never entered John Dunne's head

And when he died, he died alone, no loved ones by his side

No elegies, no broken hearts, laments or sad goodbyes

No fond words of remembrance, not even kindly lies

No-one even noticed it the day that John Dunne died