by A. E. Housman
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.