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"'The turf grows over our heads, my wife,
The gorse is black and charred;
But we lie as warm up here, my wife,
As any in Maughold Church-yard.'"
"So its time I was takin' the road, my son,
But bide you where you be;
It's a road I must travel alone, my son,
An' he will be waiting" for me."
"But mind you now what I say, to-night—
When you find my senseless clay:
You'll take me home to the hill that night,
To the grave beside the way."
"You'll lay me there in the gorse, my son.
Where he's waiting for me still;
I could not rest in my churchyard grave
An' him lyin' out on the hill."
