Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

A laugh when I wanted a smile, a sting in the honey of play,
A flout at my fustian jacket—and I left my home that day;
Left all to go a-soldiering, and 'listed for the war,
To sail to the far East Indies, and to see my love no more.

But the frigates lay at anchor, and our time was drawing nigh,
Her face was always haunting me, I'd never said good-bye;

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So I swam ashore one summer night, a mile from ship to sand;
O the silvery play of the moonlit spray, and the scent of the silent land!

I watched her cottage window till at dawn the roses stirred;
I saw the casement open, I caught a whisper'd word;
But who comes from the door below? I started from my place,
And the captain of our company I met him face to face.

I strode full front across his path; he bade me stand aside,
Said he knew me a deserter; so I told him that he lied;
Our fight was fair and open, for I struck when he struck me,

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And at last I left him lying with his head on Lucy's knee.

Little care have I to pity him, who in the cool grey light
In her arms lay there a-dying that had clasped him all the night—
While to me the end comes wearily in prison here alone,
For the dark hours pass me silently—at sunrise I'll be gone.

Farewell to you, my comrades, and tomorrow, when I'm shot,
To Lucy take this kerchief with her own truelover's-knot;
She'll be luring other sweethearts soon; she knows the scarlet streak
Of two men's blood on her winsome head will only flush her cheek.

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She may weep for a space, and think of my face (she seemed now and then to love it)
All splintered through with a bullet or two, and a barrow of earth above it;
And perhaps I may sigh if I think, as I lie with a coffin for bed and room,
Of her chamber sweet, and the rustle of feet and Lucy in all her bloom.

Yet I'd rather stay six feet in clay, where the weeds and brambles grow,
Than be sitting aloft in cloudland, with the goods folks all in a row;
For I don't take a pride in my singing, nor parades with the heavenly host,
I'd sooner be left in the village to wander about like a ghost.

Like a ghost! But my love whom I died for—O years of my life that are shorn,

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O the odour of far-off summers, the glory of days unborn!
Shall I still see the earth and its beauty, and meet her by meadow or fell?
Alas! for the living know not, and the dead men cannot tell.

The parson he says, ‘To the Lord give praise, you're ready and fit to depart;
Your repentance is sore, be troubled no more, nor think of your frail sweetheart;
You'll soon be on high with the cherubs, so get that girl from your head;
Talk no more about Lucy, her sins are as scarlet red.’

Ah, but I want my darling, and her soul with my own to deliver;
God must not be hard on my sweetheart, but pardon, as I forgive her.

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He gave her the face like an angel to drive men to fury and woe,
And I can't lose her here and hereafter, so whither she's sent I must go.

Let me go, with the Dead March beforehand, to settle the score of our guilt;
No use looking back on a lost life, or crying o'er blood that is spilt.
But will she live on to forget me? She's fickle and soft as the wind;
I wish I had killed her also, for now I must leave her behind.