When the quiet evening comes, And the village softly lies Twinkling in the shadow of the mountain; When the twilight`s muffled drums Play tattoos to the skies And the heavens close their eyes I`ll be gone.
When the fisher folds his net, Makes his craft secure And gazes to the west for signs of weather; When he thinks of his table set His children at the door, As he plods along the shore I`ll be gone.
When the merchant draws his shade, Counts the day`s receipts And smiles recalling bits of idle gossip; When the entries all are made In the ledger`s tidy sheets, As he shuffles down the streets I`ll be gone.
`Tis pretty, but `tis chains, And I must be free So fare thee well ye full contented fellow. No quiet life for me, No home no family, Now and endlessly, I`ll be gone.
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