When Himself's behind his paper and
the childer sleepin' sound,
And the moon's a winkin' lantern
throwin' shadows all around,
Forsakin' fire and hearthstone, down
the Way of Dreams I start
To meet my darlin' truelove in a
corner of my heart.
His voice is like the west-wind when
it whispers low and sweet,
His words are like the poppies that be
growin' in the wheat.
I forget the bangin' shutters and the
candle's sleepy stare,
When I meet my laughin' truelove where
he's waitin' for me there.
When Himself has grown a-weary
in the cozy evening tide,
A ghost it is that follows him and
settles at his side.
I'll be so true and faithful that he'll
never know, shall he,
I go to meet the laughin' lad, the
lad he used to be!
Originally published on this blog, with permission from Barbara Beyer Malley, on 2/13/07.