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.