I'll Be Gone

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.