Over the Hill

Over the hill, over the hill,
I saw a man pass by;
A soft brown tan was on his cheek
And a sparkle in his eye;
A stout ash stick he bore in his hand,
He whistled with joyous trill,
Out of the shadows I watched him go
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
The clouds float high and low,
Golden and white, and cold, cold grey,
A-sailing past they go.
They hang at anchor like carven ships
When the wind is calm or still.
But always they sail when the sun goes down
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
The wind blows sweet to me—
Sweet with the scent of the new-turned earth
And the scent of the salt white sea.
It cries with the cry of a veering gull.
It whispers and whistles shrill.
But always it comes with a message for me
Over the hill.

Over the hill, over the hill,
I see the strangers go,
I watch them mount against the sky
And when the clouds drift low,
I watch them fade in the wet, grey mist.
And when the night is still,
I hear them stealing quietly past,
Over the hill.