Providence

Morose Black sleet and sheet of cloud
Descend upon the mountain's shoulder
Awakening memories in the village below
Of the children they've lost on the hill

A world of work defines this land
A serious sheen and trust and worth
No-one wants nor needs to fear
The children they've lost on the hill

A shattering tax from those in the town
An invading horde that can't be kept down
These are expected as much as the tithe
Of the children they've left on the hill

Mothers weep and dogs do bark
And fathers sweat and work at lark
Some nights we dance, and drink, and sing
For the children we've lost on the hill