Appendix A
A Soldier’s Song
Love, though these hands that rest in thine so
Love, though our dreams shall have no hope but
dear, Back in-to dust, may crum-ble
this, Love, though our faith must be our
with-the year; Love, though these lips, that
rar-est bliss; Love, though the years may
meet thy lips, so true, Soon may be bring their death and chill; Love, though our grass that stores the morn-ing dew blood must lose its pass-ion, still,
O Love, Know well, that this fond heart of mine,
Still, Love, Know well, that this heart is di-vine,
It shall be al-ways, al-ways, al-ways thine!
It shall be al-ways, al-ways, al-ways thine!