There's a painting of my grandfather, on my mothers side   In the hallway of our homestaed, in a special place of pride   With his bulldogs and kanakas, back in eighteen nighty three   In a linen suit and a panama, they say he looked like me.      And the story goes he came out, to make a brand new start   In an effort to forget, a sad affair of the heart   So with these romantic notions, to the colonies he came   Where he settled in the tropics and made his fortune growing cane.     Chorus:  Well let the canefields burn, let the flames rise   Let the politicians and the bankers in the city look up   In wonder at the glow at in the sky.   Let the canefield burn, let me feel no pain   When I drown my soul in whisky, and dance in the flames.    There's a photo of my parents, taken in between the wars   In London, Rome or Paris, I don't know for shure   But it hangs there in the hallway and there's one for every year   Fortunes made, and fortunes paid, for champagne souveniers.      Chorus:... let the canefields burn...     And they say they're gonna take this all away from me   The cars the cane the homestead, all my family history   Let the auctioneer open... with a price for charred remains!      Chorus:... let the canefields burn...