The Last One

I'm walkin' on the Old Road
South'ard from the sea;
But the Old Road, the Old Road,
Is not the same to me.
The grass-grown way is grass no more,
But sharp flints an' cold,
An' the little folk an' old folk
They stare so strange an' bold.

I'm up along the Old Road
On cold flints an' grey;
An' as I pass the Wealden folk
"A furriner," they say.
"A furriner from Kent, may be.
Maybe a Northern man."
An' purty folk an' plain folk,
They look at me askan'.

A-trailin' down the Old Road
A furriner I be!
Whose father an' his father, too,
Was Wealden-born like me;
Whose mother an' her mother, too,
Was bred on Beacon Brow;
But the valley-folk an' hill-folk
They do not know me now.

Sore-footed on the Old Road
I passed the archard wall,
But archard all is cut an' bare,
There be no trees at all.
The thatch that spread above my head
Is gapin' wide and old;
An' my women-folk an' men-folk
Are lying in the mould.

Back along the Old Road,
Nor'ard to the sea.
The Old Road, the Old Road,
Is blood an' tears to me.
There's Death an' Ruin at my back,
The empty world before;
An' furrin folk, not home folk,
Will screw my coffin door.