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 thoughts 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