Classic Poem

There was never a great disaster yet, on the sea or underground,
But the name of a man whose star had set in the heroes' list was found;
There was never a war-drum yet that beat, or a battle-flag unfurled,
But a leader sprang, in the field or street, from the depths of the Underworld.

They slipped away from the country town, from the scene of their life's disgrace;
They left the streets, where their feet went down, with a light on each ruined face.
They slunk from prison and slunk from slum; they crept from the carriage gates
Of their fathers' homes, when their chance had come — the Chance for Inebriates!

Some lived the lives of their fathers dead, who drank because of a song;
And some were driven, and some were led, in the grip of a shameful wrong.
Some of my legion were bought and sold for a reason they never knew;
Some lived in a world too narrow and cold for hearts so warm and true.

There was seldom a parting sign to whirl their thoughts to a higher fate,
Save the streaming tears of a white-faced girl or the grip of a faithful mate.
(But some had a mother's arms, at least, or a father's look that stirred,
Or the warm hand-clasp of the township priest or a minister's manly word.)

The neighbours think, though their lips be dumb, " He'd a good heart, anyhow,
And his womenfolk and the friends at home can hold their heads up now. "
(They hold their heads up, often enough, it always appears to me,
For worse and weaker and meaner stuff than a drunkard knows how to be.)

Some got the waster's send-off, true, from the upright, the just and exempt
(I got it myself and I left a few with the waster's bitter contempt).
O Cant of Business! while seasons roll, with the Legal Cant in the van —
I've shrunk, at my worst, from the rotten soul of the " Upright Business Man " !

A Hundred and Three; and the blue sky arched. It is nearly always three;
And I knew two of the three that marched, and their troubles were known to me.
With a grin for the world, when all was done, they marched down to the ships,
One with a lady's kiss and one with a harlot's kiss on his lips.

You who never could rise or fall, who never were good or bad,
Lying women and weak men all, flapper and puppy and cad —
You, where the poodle is combed and curled, and each pitiful sham endures,
There are stars down here in the Underworld that are brighter than all in yours!

The " drunkards " and " wasters " go by scores from the city's shade and sun;
The soldiers are marching fours by fours, but these march one by one .
One by one with their faces still, seeing what they can see —
There shall be plenty your gaps to fill. Salute! A Hundred and Three.

Visions of club, and third-rate pub, sound of the tram or bird;
Visions of plain and hill and scrub haunt the Hundred-and-Third.
A few months more and the song is sung, here and in lands afar —
Some blood-stained rags on the barbed-wire flung, and a brave soul breasts the Bar!