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 day's 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 'tis chains,   And I must be free   So fare thee well ye full contented fellow.   No quiet life for me,   No home no family,   Now and endlessly,   I'll be gone.