whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will
As wintering-birds will journey home
The soul of one more mortal’s flown.
And when that plaintive call is heard
Untimely harbinger of death
Whose heart no longer flows with blood
Who wears the golden-round of love?
Why speak of cruel, untimely death
When mist still forms upon my breath
Ethereal, vaporous in the air
Could Fate, not once, a brave man spare?
If I should clasp my hands and pray
Would that my journey home delay?
whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will
Once more to walk well-trodden paths
Those spectral-milestones of the past.
The mountains, valleys, and the seas
Life’s fragrance heady on the breeze.
whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will
The sheep the cairn upon the hill
Beyond, the valley, where once I played
‘-Come, rest within a hero’s grave…’
Those words, the living should have read
He lies in glory with the dead.