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,