Lad, And Can You Rest Now, There Beneath Your Hill! Your Hands Are On Your Breast Now, But Is Your Heart So Still? 'Twas The Right Death To Die, Lad, A Gift Without Regret, But Unless Truth'S A Lie, Lad, You Dream Of Devon Yet. Ay, Ay, The Year'S Awaking, The Fire'S Among The Ling, The Beechen Hedge Is Breaking, The Curlew'S On The Wing; Primroses Are Out, Lad, On The High Banks Of Lee, And The Sun Stirs The Trout, Lad; From Brendon To The Sea. I Know What's In Your Heart, Lad,--- The Mare He Used To Hunt--- And Her Blue Market-Cart, Lad, With Posies Tied In Front--- We Miss Them From The Moor Road, They're Getting Old To Roam, The Road They're On'S A Sure Road And Nearer, Lad, To Home. Your Name, The Name They Cherish? 'Twill Fade, Lad, 'Tis True: But Stone And All May Perish With Little Loss To You. While Fame'S Fame You're Devon, Lad, The Glory Of The West; Till The Roll'S Called In Heaven, Lad, You May Well Take Your Rest.