Poetry Archives

Not much to me is yonder lane
  Where I go every day;
But when there’s been a shower of rain
  And hedge-birds whistle gay,
I know my lad that’s out in France
  With fearsome things to see
Would give his eyes for just one glance
  At our white hawthorn tree.
 *       *       *       *       *
Not much to me is yonder lane
  Where he so longs to tread;
But when there’s been a shower of rain
I think I’ll never weep again
  Until I’ve heard he’s dead.