The Warrior

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,

But with the night his little lamp-lit room

Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze

Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom

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.