SING me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Mull was astern, Rum on the port, Eigg on the starboard bow;Glory of youth glowed in his soul:
Where is that glory now?
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Give me again all that was there, Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul, Give me the lad that's gone!
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.
Billow and breeze, islands and seas, Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair, All that was me is gone.
XLIII - TO S. R. CROCKETT (On receiving a Dedication)BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all.
Vailima.
