Tried his courage was, I’m told; nor condoled By humanity, which rolled, with its gold, On its laughing, rushing way, Like a crowd of boys at play, Or a flock of sheep astray from the fold. But his heart was brave and true, and he knew That to flinch would never do; so say you? Thus he bravely bore his part With a true and loyal heart, Never doubting from the start; “tried and true.” The days seemed often long; but his song Rang brave and strong; just the song Of the wares he had to sell; Of the news they had to tell— Good and bad alike as well, for the throng. And he worked, and worked away, every day, With his heart as light and gay, as the May; And he did his level best, late and early; Never grumbling, never sad, and never surly; With a smile ’neath his golden head and curly, as at play. So he fought the fiends of hunger and of cold, true as gold; Like a veteran tried and bold, I am told, Was this soldier in life’s battle ’Mid the daily hum and rattle; Driven forth like sheep or cattle, to be sold. Many brave fall by the way, every day; Some survive, their country’s stay; well they may; But of all the rank and file Grandly marching up the aisle Of stern duty, all the while, who can say Which the most deserve the name, writ in fame? Those who fell ’mid shot and flame, on land or main, Or those who in obscurer strife Have given heart, and soul, and life For husband ill, for child, or wife, in duty “tame”? Well, Tommy stood, sturdy and grave—no slave— His soul had what we well might crave; no knave Was he; but faithful in the daily fight, Cheerful, happy, eager, bright— A nineteenth century valiant knight, youthful, brave. Perhaps you’d like to know his foes, who arose To strike him down with deadly blows. Who knows But such as he? Who else can tell The horrid shapes, the cruel spell These demons from the pit of hell disclose? “Hunger,” you say, “sickness and cold; no fold; No home that such as he might hold, to mould And make them good, and true, and wise?” Ah, yes! and on the streets before his eyes Were Satan’s minions in disguise; so bold! These dens of ill, they grow, you know; We find them everywhere as we go, ready to throw Their snares with fiendish skill. Almost ’twould seem, to suit their will, They’d gorge earth’s prisons to their fill below. God looked on Tommy in the fight for right, Saw darkness struggling with the light, so bright— That light which shone on Eastern plain Where shepherds heard angelic strain Such as will surely come again some night.