Come you home a hero,
 Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
 Till Ludlow tower shall fall.

And you will list the bugle
 That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
 Be sorry you were born.

And you till trump of doomsday
 On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
 Be heavy where you die.

Leave your home behind you,
 Your friends by field and town
Oh, town and field will mind you
 Till Ludlow tower is down.

IV

REVEILLE

Wake:  the silver dusk returning
 Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
 Strands upon the eastern rims.

Wake:  the vaulted shadow shatters,
 Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
 Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying: 
 Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
 “Who’ll beyond the hills away?”

Towns and countries woo together,
 Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
 Lived to feast his heart with all.

Up, lad:  thews that lie and cumber
 Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
 Were not meant for man alive.

Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
 Breath’s a ware that will not keep
Up, lad:  when the journey’s over
 There’ll be time enough to sleep.

V

Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
 Are lying in field and lane,
With dandelions to tell the hours
 That never are told again. 
Oh may I squire you round the meads
 And pick you posies gay?
-’Twill do no harm to take my arm. 
 “You may, young man, you may.”

Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,
 ’Tis now the blood runs gold,
And man and maid had best be glad
 Before the world is old. 
What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,
 But never as good as new.
-Suppose I wound my arm right round- " ’Tis true, young man, ’tis true.”

Some lads there are, ’tis shame to say,
 That only court to thieve,
And once they bear the bloom away
 ’Tis little enough they leave. 
Then keep your heart for men like me
 And safe from trustless chaps. 
My love is true and all for you. 
 “Perhaps, young man, perhaps.”

Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt? -Why, ’tis a mile from town. 
How green the grass is all about! 
 We might as well sit down.
-Ah, life, what is it but a flower? 
 Why must true lovers sigh? 
Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty,-
 “Good-bye, young man, good-bye.”

VI

When the lad for longing sighs,
 Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death’s own door he lies,
 Maiden, you can heal his ail.