When I was young I had a care Lest I should cheat me of my share Of that which makes it sweet to strive For life, and dying still survive, A name in sunshine written higher Than lark or poet dare aspire. But I grew weary doing well. Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, Down with the loud banditti people Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple For jackdaws' eyes and made the cock Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. I was so very bad the neighbours Spoke of me at their daily labours. And now I'm drinking wine in France, The helpless child of circumstance. To-morrow will be loud with war, How will I be accounted for? It is too late now to retrieve A fallen dream, too late to grieve A name unmade, but not too late To thank the gods for what is great; A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, Is greater than a poet's art. And greater than a poet's fame A little grave that has no name.
Published in "Last Songs" by Francis Ledwidge,
Herbert Jenkins,
London 1918 p
Probable date of writing December 1916
