the mist of may

The mist of May is in the gloamin',
and all the clouds are holdin' still.
So take my hand and let's go roamin'
through the heather on the hill.

The mornin' dew is blinkin' yonder.
There's lazy music in the rill,
And all I want to do is wander
through the heather on the hill.

There may be other days as rich and rare.
There may be other springs as full and fair.
But they won't be the same--they'll come and go,

For this I know:

That when the mist is in the gloamin',
and all the clouds are holdin' still,
If you're not there I won't go roamin'
through the heather on the hill,
The heather on the hill.