Page:A Highland Regiment.djvu/26



LONG the dusty highway,

And through the little town,

The people of the country

Are riding up and down.

Behind the lines of fighting

They gather in all day

The harvest, folk are reaping

At home and far away.

If on the hills about us,

Where now the thrush sings low.

The face of earth were bitter.

It would not hurt us so.

Though earth grew strange and savage

And all the world were new.

It would not tear our memory

The way the cornfields do.