[1] Pronounced Breedon.

XXII

The street sounds to the soldiers’ tread,
 And out we troop to see: 
A single redcoat turns his head,
 He turns and looks at me.

My man, from sky to sky’s so far,
 We never crossed before;
Such leagues apart the world’s ends are,
 We’re like to meet no more;

What thoughts at heart have you and I
 We cannot stop to tell;
But dead or living, drunk or dry,
 Soldier, I wish you well.

XXIII

The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
 There’s men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
 And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

There’s chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
 And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
 And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
 The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
 And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

But now you may stare as you like and there’s nothing to scan;
 And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
 The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

XXIV

Say, lad, have you things to do? 
 Quick then, while your day’s at prime. 
Quick, and if ’tis work for two,
 Here am I, man:  now’s your time.

Send me now, and I shall go;
 Call me, I shall hear you call;
Use me ere they lay me low
 Where a man’s no use at all;

Ere the wholesome flesh decay,
 And the willing nerve be numb,
And the lips lack breath to say,
 “No, my lad, I cannot come.”

XXV

This time of year a twelvemonth past,
 When Fred and I would meet,
We needs must jangle, till at last
 We fought and I was beat.

So then the summer fields about,
 Till rainy days began,
Rose Harland on her Sundays out
 Walked with the better man.

The better man she walks with still,
 Though now ’tis not with Fred: 
A lad that lives and has his will
 Is worth a dozen dead.

Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,
 And clay’s the house he keeps;
When Rose and I walk out together
 Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.

XXVI

Along the fields as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone. 
“Oh who are these that kiss and pass? 
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.”