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When I was a boy,
The moon was a pearl
The sun a yellow gold.
But when I was a man,
The wind blew cold
The hills were upside down.

But now that
I have gone from here
There’s no place
I’d rather be
than to float my chances
On the tide Back
In the good old world.
On October’s last

I’ll fly back home
Rolling down winding way.
Scare crows are all dressed
In rags out at the edge
Of the field I lay
and all I’ve got’s a pocket
Full of flowers on my grave.
Oh but summer is gone
I remember it best
Back in the good old world.

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