Not much to me is yonder lane
Where I go every day;
But when theres been a shower of rain
And hedge-birds whistle gay,
I know my lad thats out in France
With fearsome things to see
Would give his eyes for just one glance
At our white hawthorn tree.
. . . .
Not much to me is yonder lane
Where he so longs to tread:
But when theres been a shower of rain
I think Ill never weep again
Until Ive heard hes dead.
