Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/75

73 The turf grows over our heads, my wife,
 * The gorse is black and charred;

But we lie as warm up here, my wife,
 * As any in Maughold Church-yard.

"So its time I was takin' the road, my son,
 * But bide you where you be;

It's a road I must travel alone, my son,
 * An' he will be waiting" for me."

"But mind you now what I say, to-night—
 * When you find my senseless clay:

You'll take me home to the hill that night,
 * To the grave beside the way."

"You'll lay me there in the gorse, my son.
 * Where he's waiting for me still;

I could not rest in my churchyard grave
 * An' him lyin' out on the hill."