He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
But with the night his little lamp-lit
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay; Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns low — Yet couraged for the battles of the day He goes to stand full face to face with life.
