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