Frank James Prewett

As I went down the Baldon lane, Alone I went, as oft I went, Weighing if it were loss or gain

The blue sky arches wide From hill to hill; The little grasses stand

Come girl, and embrace And ask no more I wed thee; Know then you are sweet of face,

They come fluttering helpless to the ground Like wreaths of wind-caught snow, Uttering a plaintive, chirping sound,

Morning and evening are mine, And the bright noon-day; But night to no man doth belong

Comrade, why do you weep? Is it sorrow for a friend Who fell, rifle in hand,

Dear mother, from the sure sun and warm seas Of Italy, I, sick, remember now What sometimes is forgot in times of ease,

Met ye my love? Ye might in France have met him; He has a wooing smile,