Toll not the bell, when death shall close mine eyes,
And life has kissed me with cold lips goodbye,
Nor shed a tear for age old memories,
Or lift your head, and gaze, and sadly sigh.
No, not for me some cold hard resting place,
But like a Viking King in Blazing pride
With hope, ambition, and dreams still burning,
Let my life drift out - on the silent tide.
So to my toil the evening brings the end,
And to each labour comes the quiet rest,
Whilst some strange creatures of this universe
Seek their last sleeping on her earthy breast.
Fly Mallard fly, and darting Grebe submerge,
And Moorhen scurry to your reedy hide,
I'll go from here, midst natures magnitude,
And my soul will drift out - on the silent tide.
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