When the quiet evening comes And the village softly lies Twinkling in the shadow of the mountain When the twilight's muffled drums Play tattoos to the skies And the heavens close their eyes I'll be gone When the fisher folds his net Makes his craft secure And gazes to the west for signs of weather When he thinks of his table set His children at the door As he plods along the shore I'll be gone When the merchant draws his shade Counts the days receipts And smiles recalling bits of idle gossip When the entries all are made In the ledger's tidy sheets As he shuffles down the streets I'll be gone 'Tis pretty but is changed And now I must be free So fare-thee-well ye poor contented fellow No quiet life for me No hope, no family Now and endlessly I'll be gone