They Are Coming To Take Me away

A horde of old brown leaves comes dancing up the yard, 
the autumn wind is throwing them apart.  
An old tin cup will slowly fill with rain  
until the winter storm will sweep the plain.  

The light is fading, nothing stays the same  
and memory seems the one thing to remain. 
But memory's just a canvas on the shore: 
it sails away and can be seen no more. 

Before the night falls I will bid farewell.  
Where I'll be brought to I can never tell. 
I cord my knapsack in the dusky gray  
for soon they're coming to take me away.