The rain,

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,     The boot clings to the clay.     Since all is done thats due and right     Lets home; and now, my lad, good-night,     For I must turn away.     Good-night, my lad, for noughts eternal;     No league of ours, for sure.     Tomorrow I shall miss you less,     And ache of heart and heaviness     Are things that time should cure.     Over the hill the highway marches     And whats beyond is wide:     Oh soon enough will pine to nought     Remembrance and the faithful thought     That sits the grave beside.     The skies, they are not always raining     Nor grey the twelvemonth through;     And I shall meet good days and mirth,     And range the lovely lands of earth     With friends no worse than you.     But oh, my man, the house is fallen     That none can build again;     My man, how full of joy and woe     Your mother bore you years ago     To-night to lie in the rain.