Here by the bivouac fire, above These fields of savage play, I'll lift my love to meet thy love Twa thousand miles away, 

These fields of savage play,

Twa thousand miles away,

 Where yonder, yonder by the stars, Nightlong there rins a burn, And maids with lovers at the wars May list their wraiths' return. 

Nightlong there rins a burn,

May list their wraiths' return.

 More careless yet my spirit grows Of fame, more sick of blood: But I can think of Badajoz, And yet that God is good. Beyond the siege, beyond the stour, Beyond the sack of towns, I reach to pluck ae lily-floo'r Where leaders press for crowns. 

Of fame, more sick of blood:

And yet that God is good.

Beyond the sack of towns,

Where leaders press for crowns.

 O Mary! lily! bow'd and wet With mair than mornin's rain! The bugles up the Lawnmarket Shall sound us home again. 

With mair than mornin's rain!

Shall sound us home again.

 Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands, And be damn'd their bitter drouth. With your dear face between my hands And the cup held to my mouth, My love, It's clean cup to my mouth!

And be damn'd their bitter drouth.

And the cup held to my mouth,

My love,

JENIFER'S LOVE

Small is my secret--let it pass— Small in your life the share I had, Who sat beside you in the class, Awed by the bright superior lad: Whom yet with hot and eager face I prompted when he missed his place. 

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