The Fiddler's Farewell

With my fiddle to my shoulder,

And my hair turning grey,

And my heart growing older

I must shuffle on my way!

Tho' there's not a hearth to greet me

I must reap as I sowed,

And—the sunset shall meet me

At the turn of the road.

O, the whin's a dusky yellow

And the road a rosy white,

And the blackbird's call is mellow

At the falling of night;

And there's honey in the heather

Where we'll make our last abode,

My tunes and me together

At the turn of the road.

I have fiddled for your city

Thro' market-place and inn!

I have poured forth my pity

On your sorrow and your sin!

But your riches are your burden,

And your pleasure is your goad!

I've the whin-gold for guerdon

At the turn of the road.

Your village-lights 'll call me

As the lights of home the dead;

But a black night befall me

Ere your pillows rest my head!

God be praised, tho' like a jewel

Every cottage casement showed,

There's a star that's not so cruel

At the turn of the road.

Nay, beautiful and kindly

Are the faces drawing nigh,

But I gaze on them blindly

And hasten, hasten by;

For O, no face of wonder

On earth has ever glowed

Like the One that waits me yonder

At the turn of the road.

Her face is lit with splendour,

She dwells beyond the skies;

But deep, deep and tender

Are the tears in her eyes:

The angels see them glistening

In pity for my load,

And—she's waiting there, she's listening.

At the turn of the road.