Some come from roaming
With joy again;
Some, who come homing
By stealth at gloaming,
Had better have stopped
Till death, and dropped
By strange hands propped,
Than come so fain,
So fain.

So, with this saying,
"Good-bye, good-bye,"
We speed their waying
Without betraying
Our grief, our fear
No more to hear
From them, close, clear,
Again: "Good-bye,
Good-bye!"



ON THE TUNE CALLED THE OLD-HUNDRED-AND-FOURTH



We never sang together
Ravenscroft's terse old tune
On Sundays or on weekdays,
In sharp or summer weather,