When the quiet evening comes
And the village softly lies
Twinklling in the shadow of the mountain
When the twilight's muffled glows
Play tatoos 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? on the shore
I'll be gone.
When the merchant draws his shade,
Counts the days 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 is strange
And I must be free.
So fare-thee-well you poor contented fellow
No quiet life for me, no hope, no family,
Now and endlessly
I'll be gone.