Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.
But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame's to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I'll be there.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
White in the moon the long road lies.
When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.
I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist); and that philosophy is founded on my observation of the world, not on anything so trivial and irrelevant as personal history.