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.