The Queen she sent to look for me, The sergeant he did say, 'Young man, a soldier will you be
Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough The land and not the sea, And leave the soldiers at their drill,
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew
This time of year a twelvemonth past, When Fred and I would meet, We needs must jangle, till at last
I walked alone and thinking, And faint the nightwind blew And stirred on mounds at crossways
"What sound awakened me, I wonder, For now 'tis dumb." "Wheels on the road most like, or thunder:
The half-moon westers low, my love, And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love,