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.