As wintering birds will journey home
The soul of one poor mortal’s flown.
When, once, that plaintive cry is heard
-Untimely harbinger of death.
Whose heart no longer flows with blood
Who broke the golden-round of love?
Why speak of cruel, untimely death
When mist, yet, forms upon my breath?
Ethereal, vaporous in the air
Could Fate, not once, a brave heart spare.
Should I 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!
Within this ground where sheep once grazed
Come, rest within your hero’s grave…
‘At peace within his narrow bed
He lives in glory with the dead…’