If I were there to fight and die,
My scattered bones interred would lie,
In foreign soil beneath a sky-
My lover would not see.
Yet surely she would dream of me,
And cherished would my memory be
That often she on bended knee,
Would muse upon my grave.
And at her bedside she would save
A lock of hair of one so brave,
So that the blood and breath he gave
Would not be spent in vain.
Indeed yet when the letter came
The tears fair passed like summer rain
And shortly was my memory stained;
She did my troth forswear.
And so my lad be thus aware,
It matters not that she be fair,
Nor yet again of what you care:
Dead soldiers are still dead.
©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.