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.