It fell about the edge of dark,
Between the sun and moon,
The yeoman's son came home again
With the mire upon his shoon -

With the red clay upon his shoon
From a furrowed field afar -
The sour and bitter clod that breaks
Beneath the share of war.

'Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother,
And hold me to your breast;
For the long day's work is over and done,
And I go glad to rest.'

'And oh, good-bye, my father's house,
Good-bye to field and hill,
For I'll lie down in the red furrow
To sleep, and sleep my fill.'

'I shall not rouse at the cock-crow,
I shall not wake with the sun;
I shall sleep the sleep of a strong man tired
When his day's work is done.'

'Ay, deep I'll sleep in the red furrow,
Out over the Channel foam . . .
And another hand than mine, mother,
Must lead the harvest home!'