While The Billy BoilsSearchA sun-flash on his mounting wing,A wild note soaring high—The lark is up, the minstrel king,The poet of the sky.To thrill, to sing of Youth and SpringThose golden numbers flowed. What message then Has he for menWho tread the long grey road?
Knee-deep in grass the cattle stand,The river winds along,And chants through sunny meadow landA low mysterious song.Ah! sunlit vale and lover's taleYouth's day is quickly gone— Past current-beat And meadow-sweetThe grey road stretches on!
Grim bastions frowning down below—And rising, tier on tier,Sublime, and crowned with ageless snowThe awful peaks appear.The heights belong unto the strongWho scale, by crags untried, The great cliff's face— But at its baseThe grey road turns aside!
No hope in Heaven, no minstrel strain,No vales where summer shone—A leaden sky, a silent plain,The grey road stretching on.O Christ, who trod the thorny path,And bore the bitter load, Have mercy then On weary menWho tread the long grey road!