Lad, and can you rest now, There beneath your hill?Your hands are on your breast now, But is your heart so still?'Twas the right death to die, lad, A gift without regret,But unless truth's a lie, lad, You dream of Devon yet.
Ay, ay, the year's awaking, The fire's among the ling,The beechen hedge is breaking, The curlew's on the wing;Primroses are out, lad, On the high banks of Lee,And the sun stirs the trout, lad, From Brendon to the sea.
I know what's in your heart, lad,-- The mare he used to hunt--And her blue market-cart, lad, With posies tied in front--We miss them from the moor road, They're getting old to roam,The road they're on's a sure road And nearer, lad, to home.
Your name, the name they cherish? 'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:But stone and all may perish With little loss to you.While fame's fame you're Devon, lad, The Glory of the West;Till the roll's called in heaven, lad, You may well take your rest.
