Beneath The Cloy Mountain-Grass Poem by Mark Heathcote

Oh, come hither-my-Lass, to the hills-
where the gorge of the valley cries out
and sing, dance and shout my love,
for what this life is all about?
And if it isn't to be merry, my Love,
and if it isn't to be glad;
then bury me, my bonny Lass,
beneath the cloy mountain-grass.

Oh, gather-me-in-your-arms my-Lass.
Take-me-back to the sea and the stars
and if there's nothing-shinning, my love,
tarry with my heart in your lonesome arms.
For-the-waters all around me love,
are deep and dark, and black-
so if it isn't to be glad my-Lass,
bury me beneath the cloy mountain-grass.