Stay

Well, he headed for home
Towards the end of that year
In his torn soldier's coat
And his miserable beard.
He passed all those eyes
So faded and dim.
He walked twelve hundred miles
Just to reach her again.
And all that he had
Or could manage to save
Was a small scrap of paper
He would take to his grave.
And he tired; he was tired.
The ink had ran in the rain.
But every night by the fire
He'd read it again.
"When it comes on down
To my last days.
I hope you'll be here,
And I hope you'll stay.
I hope you'll be here,
And I hope you'll stay."

For the rest of his life
He was never the same.
Some men die from the wounds.
Some die from the pain.
It took all he had left
Just to drop at her door
He'd fought his last fight.
He'd made it home from the war.
But she washed and she fed him
And she put him to bed
And every night his hands trembled
As he looked up and said,
"When it comes on down
To my last days.
I hope you'll be here,
And I hope you'll stay.
I hope you'll be here,
And I hope you'll stay."

Well, he was buried out back
In the shade of a tree.
He was ninety years old,
And she had turned eighty three.
He had no medals or honors
To take to the ground
Just an old scrap of paper
That was faded and brown.
Well, she followed him home
That following May.
She just passed in the night.
She just slipped away.
"It was her heart, bless her heart,"
Was all they could say.
But there was that look in her eyes
That shone through the grey.
He was there, he was there
On that very last day.
He said, "You knew I'd be here.
You knew that I'd stay.
You knew I'd be here.
You knew that I'd stay."