XVIII.
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he rain, it streams on stone and hillock,The boot clings to the clay.Since all is done that's due and rightLet's home; and now, my lad, good-night,For I must turn away. Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;No league of ours, for sure.Tomorrow I shall miss you less,And ache of heart and heavinessAre things that time should cure. Over the hill the highway marchesAnd what's beyond is wide:Oh soon enough will pine to noughtRemembrance and the faithful thoughtThat sits the grave beside. The skies, they are not always rainingNor grey the twelvemonth through;And I shall meet good days and mirth,And range the lovely lands of earthWith friends no worse than you. But oh, my man, the house is fallenThat none can build again;My man, how full of joy and woeYour mother bore you years agoTo-night to lie in the rain.
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