Sitting by my windowsill,
Looking down the moor,
Waiting for your footsteps
To come tramping at my door.
The candle wick is dying,
My eyes are growing faint,
Waiting for your footstep
To come stamping at my gate.
Your supper now is ready,
It's cooling by the hearth,
Waiting for your footsteps
To come tamping down the earth.
Yet days pass on and on,
I sit here growing old,
Waiting for your footsteps
To come muffled by the cold.
And so I now get up,
Not to sit here anymore,
Waiting for your footsteps
To come tramping at my door.
But in my heart I'll listen,
Though with someone else I be,
And in my heart I'll wait,
For your voice to call on me,
Waiting for your footsteps
To come on home to me.