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