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 is 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.