Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers shall come again, mother, beneath the waning light,
You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night:
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool,
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you’ll come sometimes and see me, where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.