O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill <br />The bugles blew for Spain: <br />And you below the Castle Hill <br />Stood in the crowd your lane. <br />Then hearts were wild to watch us pass, <br />Yet laith to let us go! <br />While mine said, 'Fare-ye-well, my lass!' <br />And yours, 'God keep my Jo!' <br /> <br />Here by the bivouac fire, above <br />These fields of savage play, <br />I'll lift my love to meet thy love <br />Twa thousand miles away, <br /> <br />Where yonder, yonder by the stars, <br />Nightlong there rins a burn, <br />And maids with lovers at the wars <br />May list their wraiths' return. <br /> <br />More careless yet my spirit grows <br />Of fame, more sick of blood: <br />But I can think of Badajoz, <br />And yet that God is good. <br />Beyond the siege, beyond the stour, <br />Beyond the sack of towns, <br />I reach to pluck ae lily-floo'r <br />Where leaders press for crowns. <br /> <br />O Mary! lily! bow'd and wet <br />With mair than mornin's rain! <br />The bugles up the Lawnmarket <br />Shall sound us home again. <br /> <br />Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands, <br />And be damn'd their bitter drouth. <br />With your dear face between my hands <br />And the cup held to my mouth, <br />My love, <br />It's clean cup to my mouth!<br /><br />Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mary-leslie/
