Yet he cannot sleep thereunder, But ever must toss and turn. _How went the battle, I wonder?_ --And that he will never learn! _When winter trees bestrew the path, Still to the twig a leaf or twain Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath, But that foreknown, forlorner pain-- To fall when green leaves come again!_ II. THE MARINE (_Poitevin_) The bold Marine comes back from war, So kind: The bold Marine comes back from war, So kind: With a raggety coat and a worn-out shoe. "Now, poor Marine, say, whence come you, All so kind?" I travel back from the war, madame, So kind: I travel back from the war, madame, So kind: For a glass of wine and a bowl of whey, 'Tis I will sing you a ballad gay, All so kind. The bold Marine he sips his whey, So kind: He sips and he sings his ballad gay, So kind: But the dame she turns toward the wall, To wipe her tears that fall and fall, All so kind. What aileth you at my song, madame, So kind? I hope that I sing no wrong, madame, So kind? Or grieves it you a beggar should dine On a bowl of whey and the good white wine, All so kind? It ails me not at your ballad gay, So kind: It ails me not for the wine and whey, So kind: But it ails me sore for the voice and eyes Of a good man long in Paradise.-- Ah, so kind! You have fair children five, madame, So kind: You have fair children five, madame, So kind: Your good man left you children three; Whence came these twain for company, All so kind? "A letter came from the war, Marine, So kind: A letter came from the war, Marine, So kind: A while I wept for the good man dead, But another good man in a while I wed, All so kind." The bold Marine he drained his glass, So kind: The bold Marine he drained his glass, So kind. He said not a word, though the tears they flowed, But back to his regiment took the road, All so kind. MARY LESLIE _Before Vittoria, June_ 20, 1813 O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill The bugles blew for Spain: And you below the Castle Hill Stood in the crowd your lane. Then hearts were wild to watch us pass, Yet laith to let us go! While mine said, "Fare-ye-well, my lass!" And yours, "God keep my Jo!" Here by the bivouac fire, above These fields of savage play, I'll lift my love to meet thy love Twa thousand miles away, Where yonder, yonder by the stars, Nightlong there rins a burn, And maids with lovers at the wars May list their wraiths' return. More careless yet my spirit grows Of fame, more sick of blood: But I can think of Badajoz, And yet that God is good. Beyond the siege, beyond the stour, Beyond the sack of towns, I reach to pluck ae lily-floo'r Where leaders press for crowns. O Mary! lily! bow'd and wet With mair than mornin's rain! The bugles up the Lawnmarket Shall sound us home again.