2Upon a grass-green Scottish hill,
A woman cries alone.
Her sobs are heard by not a soul
Save trees that softly moan.
Her tears fall down upon the Earth,
But Earth gives not a mind.
This single hag, in all the world,
Has power of no kind.
You may think the same as Earth,
Who gives her no regard.
"What matters such a feeble mind
"When all the world is hard?"
Long has she been weeping here,
And long she'll labor still.
There's something buried in that mound,
Beneath that grass-grown hill.
What lies beneath that ancient sod
The woman will not say.
Her soft reply, if she is asked:
"And why don't you dismay?
"Beneath my tears could be the tomb
"Of even you or I."
Her words are riddles, old and great:
What happens when we die?
Or for that matter, what of love,
Or hate, or jealousy?
What happens when they fade away?
Do they just cease to be?
Her words are those I won't forget.
This world has grown so vast
That when one leaves, it's hard to care,
Lest power's in their cast.
What of that old lonely hag
Who cries upon the grass?
She weeps for you, and me, and them.
She weeps for all that's passed.