XVIII.

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,

The boot clings to the clay.

Since all is done that's due and right

Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,

For I must turn away.

Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;

No league of ours, for sure.

Tomorrow I shall miss you less,

And ache of heart and heaviness

Are things that time should cure.

Over the hill the highway marches

And what's beyond is wide:

Oh soon enough will pine to nought

Remembrance and the faithful thought

That sits the grave beside.

The skies, they are not always raining

Nor grey the twelvemonth through;

And I shall meet good days and mirth,

And range the lovely lands of earth

With friends no worse than you.

But oh, my man, the house is fallen

That none can build again;

My man, how full of joy and woe

Your mother bore you years ago

To-night to lie in the rain.