The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
   And out we troop to see:
A single redcoat turns his head,
   He turns and looks at me.

My man, from sky to sky's so far,
   We never crossed before;
Such leagues apart the world's ends are,
   We're like to meet no more;

What thought at heart have you and I
   We cannot stop to tell;
But dead or living, drunk or dry,
   Soldier, I wish you well.

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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