A sepia face in an old gilt frame.
The smile's but a trace and can't hide the pain in her eyes
Though she tries.
Her Donegal farm made enough to get by;
She never asked for the sky;
Now her grandsons lie 'neath a bomb-shattered wall
And their women weep for the shame of it all.
It's time we were moving along,
The days that we knew are all gone for a song
And it seems to me
Such a strange melody
That it's time to be moving along.
The widow Trelawny's contented, if poor,
Tending the rose by her door in the sun.
The postman comes.
A letter says she can no longer live there,
After sixty-five years she'll be throen into care
While concrete is poured where the rose used to grow -
For the stockbrokers' Daimlers her lane was too slow.
And it's time we were drifting away,
The things we so loved seem worth little today
So I'll wave adieu
And be passing on through.
Yes, it's time to be drifting away.
Little boy lost in the cold winter air.
A moment ago his mother was there, holding on.
Now she's gone!
Searching the streets through the dread black night -
One moment out of her sight . . .
Now flowers wilt 'neath the grey Mersey sky
And as each petal falls someone asks himself "Why?"
Yes it's time to be saying farewell
The whole crazy world's on a straight road to hell
Let it roll on past
I'll rest easy at last
Yes it's time to be saying farewell.