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Old Mother Moon

Old Mother moon is coming up,
coming o’er the hill -
a pale golden yellow fairy queen,
enchanted, soft and still;
mists from the stream in the valley are rising -
sheep on the mountains are sleeping in peace -
the road through the crisp air homeward is winding,
endowed with heavenly fleece.

Old Mother Moon is rising still,
glistening in the lake -
the queen of lovers, goddess fair
of memories lost awake;
she stirs in all men deep remorse and pining -
who can forget that’s been loved o’er the years?
When will the memories cease their reviling -
and why are my eyes filled with tears?