 | Poems |  |
TIRED.
Lay down my head, dear, it's no use to cry—
My trouble is passed, I am going to die;
The hill-path is over, I'm beat in the race,
For the wind of the world always blew in my face.
My trouble is passed, I am going to die;
The hill-path is over, I'm beat in the race,
For the wind of the world always blew in my face.
It'll daunt me no more, but I mind how it blew.
I slipped and I fell, and I tried it anew;
But, fight you or flee, it's a desperate case
To clamber up-hill with the wind in your face.
I slipped and I fell, and I tried it anew;
But, fight you or flee, it's a desperate case
To clamber up-hill with the wind in your face.
Sweet, sweet are the meadows, by river or rill,
Where the turf is all green and the weather is still;
But people can't all have the easiest place—
The wind must be blowing in somebody's face.
Where the turf is all green and the weather is still;
But people can't all have the easiest place—
The wind must be blowing in somebody's face.
95
I'm tired of it, Mary! I'm glad to be gone.
You're better without me, you won't be alone;
You have borne with my sorrows a weariful space
And the wind that dismayed me has blown in your face.
You're better without me, you won't be alone;
You have borne with my sorrows a weariful space
And the wind that dismayed me has blown in your face.
Good-bye, little maidie. I never shall stand
In your sunshine, my darling, my rose of the land!
My trouble your bright head shall never abase—
The wind of the world never'll blow in your face.
In your sunshine, my darling, my rose of the land!
My trouble your bright head shall never abase—
The wind of the world never'll blow in your face.
Good-bye, dears, good-bye. I won't kiss you again,
I'm far out too weary to lengthen my pain.
Just cover me over; I'll lie in my place
Till the wind is all quiet that blew in my face.
I'm far out too weary to lengthen my pain.
Just cover me over; I'll lie in my place
Till the wind is all quiet that blew in my face.
The heavenly sunshine will warm me up there,
No wild wind or tempest shall vex the soft air;
When the last sob is uttered, God grant me his grace
To rest where the wind cannot blow in my face.
No wild wind or tempest shall vex the soft air;
When the last sob is uttered, God grant me his grace
To rest where the wind cannot blow in my face.
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