Upon a wild March morn
My husband went to France;
The day my child was born
His word came to advance.
‘ Twas on that very day
When my life should be crown'd,
As I lay in, he lay
Broken upon the ground.
For my loss there was gain,
But his precious blood
Was shed to earth like rain
Within the shatter'd wood.
Missing, the paper said,
But my heart said, Nay.
Missing! My man had been dead
Before he went away!