My Time It Comes

I can hear the whispers of the south. 
And they’re callin me back out. 
They beckon me to return to my roots. 
Oh whipper-will can you point the lost souls way. 
Guide me by your song. 
For if death comes for me now,
Let me be where I call home. 

I fear not,
What lies ahead. 
For I know I’ve done my best. 
These old boots,
They’ve tread a straight path. 
And may they make it. 
To my place of rest. 

Oh I wonder what I’ll see, on the other side. 
Will it be my friends, and my kin. 
Waiting, filled with pride. 
Or shall I see a field, that’s ready to turn. 
Where I can work in peace.
My place there to earn.  
When I’m dead. 

I fear not,
What lies ahead. 
For I know I’ve done my best. 
These old boots,
They’ve tread a straight path. 
And may they make it. 
To my place of rest. 

These hands of time,
Have counted many an hour. 
And many moons,
Have shone upon my face. 
When this heart of mine,
Stops its beatin. 
Shead no tear,
For my passin. 
Just smile and wave,
At the man dressed in black. 
As he leads. 
Me home. 

I fear not,
What lies ahead. 
For I know I’ve done my best. 
These old boots,
They’ve tread a straight path. 
And may they make it. 
To my place of rest. 

Slow, dark folk, dark mountain music. Banjos and mandolins. Tired old Male vocals.