Young Fellow My Lad

“Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,

On this glittering morn of May?”

“I'm going to join the Colours, Dad;

They're looking for men, they say.”

“But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;

You are n't obliged to go.”

“I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad,

And ever so strong, you know.”

“So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,

And you're looking so fit and bright.”

“I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,

But I feel that I'm doing right.”

“God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,

You're all of my life, you know.”

“Do n't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad,

And I'm awfully proud to go.”

“Why do n't you write, Young Fellow My Lad?

I watch for the post each day;

And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad,

And it's months since you went away.

And I've had the fire in the parlour lit,

And I'm keeping it burning bright

Till my boy comes home; and here I sit

Into the quiet night.”

“What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?

No letter again to-day.

Why did the postman look so sad,

And sigh as he turned away?

I hear them tell that we've gained new ground,

But a terrible price we've paid:

God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound;

But oh I'm afraid, afraid.”

“So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad,

In the gleam of the evening star,

In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,

In all sweet things that are.

And you'll never die, my wonderful boy,

While life is noble and true;

For all our beauty and hope and joy

We will owe to our lads like you.”