I wander today to the hill, Maggie, to watch the sea below.
The creek and the creaking old mill, Maggie, as we used to long, long ago.
The green grove is gone from the hill, Maggie.
We're further away.
As the daisies grow, the creaking old mill, it is still, Maggie, since you and I were young.
They say I am feeble, they preach, Maggie.
My steps are less blightly than them.
My face is a well-written page, Maggie, but time alone was the pen.
They say we are aged and grey.
Maggie, Maggie, as grey by the windbreakers' blood.
But to me, you're as fair as you were, Maggie, when you and I were young.
And we were born strange friends, Maggie, and so I was in the coming, the passing and the coming.
And now we are aged and grey, Maggie.
The trials of life have nearly already."
They're about to end.
That is so.











To sing of the days that are gone, Maggie
When you and I were young
When you and I were young
When you and I were young