The sheep are bleating in the rain
That drives across Lune Moor,
And he will never come again
At eve to Unthank door.

Though I was naught to him, kind sleep
Comes rare and scant to me
Since he has left the bleating sheep
And gone across the sea.

They took him from the sheep, and gave
A gun into his hands;
And he has gone to seek a grave
In far-off foreign lands.

I wonder if he ever hears
Out there the bleat of sheep,
Or if with cold death in his ears
He sleeps too sound and deep.

I wonder if he hears the rain
That drives so drearily—
That drives across Lune Moor again
And through the heart of me.