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Collected from JOE WATSON Caringbah, NSW Recorded 1973 onwards The HermitA hermit who dwelt in the solitudes crossed me,As way worn and faint up the mountain I pressed, The aged man paused on his staff to accost me, And offer me his cell as my mansion of rest. As any courteous father right onward I roam. No rest but the grave for a pilgrim of love. Yet tarry, my son, 'till the burning noon passes, Let boughs from my lemon tree shelter thy dead, And juice from ripe muscatels flowing from my glasses, And rushing fresh forth all thy being to renew, As any courteous father right onward I roam, No rest for but the grave for a pilgrim of love. No rest for a pilgrim of love, for a pilgrim of love. No rest but the grave for a pilgrim of love. |