Graeme plays this tuned down half a step to  
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. 
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 
well tomorrow when the bankers come, to settle all their claims 
let the auctioneer open...with a price for charred remains! 
Chorus:....let the canefields burn....