The poem
Not much to me is yonder lane Where I go every day; But when there's been a shower of rain And hedge-birds whistle gay, I know my lad that's 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 there's been a shower of rain I think I'll never weep again Until I've heard he's dead.