47 



Turn again my lads, yo-ho ! 



Through the villages we go, 

 Turn the horse's heads to London if you will ; 



Stealing onwards do we sail, 



Through the mists from out the vale, 

 Stealing onwards through the twilight calm and still. 



'Neath the hill the setting sun, 



Now its daily course is run. 

 Tells a tale of golden promise and repose ; 



All the bars of shining gold, 



Falling lightly on the wold, 

 Bring the day in silent grandeur to a close. 



There the giant shadows fall. 



From the pines so gaunt and tall. 

 Where the night wind whispers softly through the trees ; 



And the mantle of the night, 



Borne aloft upon its flight. 

 Travels onwards on the shoulder of the breeze. 



Out again, my lads, yo-ho ! 



Rolling on we step and go. 

 See the lights of London guide us on our way ! 



Mark the sparks that flash and gleam, 



From the hoof-strokes of the team, 

 While the merry men above are bright and gay. 



