vii

Upon a wild March morn My husband went to France; The day my child was born His word came to advance.

'Twas on that very day When my life should be crown'd, As I lay in, he lay Broken upon the ground.

For my loss there was gain, But his precious blood Was shed to earth like rain Within the shatter'd wood.

Missing, the paper said, But my heart said, Nay. Missing! My man had been dead Before he went away!