| Oh Mrs. Wurley where’s your son?
|
| Is he finding his way by the stars of his gun?
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| Quiet and surly he walks with no shoes
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| He finds not a heart, nor a spade for some food
|
| When will he yield his wandering wheels to the signs?
|
| When will he give his sweet old soul the time?
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| To lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| On the mountainside, the mountainside
|
| Where our prayers collide
|
| On the mountainside
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| Sweet Mrs. Wurley what do you see
|
| Out the old window beneath the arms of the tree?
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| Can you play his melody through the glass of memory?
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| Can you hear his whistling' hummin' home on the breeze?
|
| When will he yield his wandering wheels to the signs?
|
| When will he give his sweet old soul the time?
|
| To lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| On the mountainside, on the mountainside
|
| When will he yield his wandering wheels to the signs?
|
| When will he give his sweet old soul the time?
|
| To lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| On the mountainside, the mountainside
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| On the mountainside, the mountainside
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| Lay it down, oh lay it down
|
| On the mountainside, the mountainside
|
| Where our prayers collide
|
| With the mountainside |