It isn’t natural
for a man to be
Remembered past a
century or so –
His children dead,
his earthly wealth all spent,
His lands in hands
he would not recognize.
Have done with me,
as I have long had done.
The Highland glens
will know my step no more.
The river that I
forded as a boy,
A man, a fugitive,
now chills me not,
Nor can my wife’s
loved fingers warm me now.
Forget me, then;
but never, please, forget
The wild and the
rushing of the stream,
And how the fire
welcomes home the ghost –
The weary traveler,
who ghostlike seems.
And if it helps
you to remember these,
Remember Rob; it’s
all the same to me.
