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.
