Songs my father taught me,
In the days long vanished;
Seldom from the eyelids,
Were the tear drops banished.
Now I teach my children,
Each melodic measure.
Oft the tears are flowing,
Oft they flow from my memory’s treasure
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
A hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles,
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind
