Far nobler the sword that is nicked and worn,
Far fairer the flag that is grimy and torn,
Than when, to the battle, fresh they were borne.
He was tried and found true; he stood the test;
'Neath whirlwinds of doubt, when all the rest
Crouched down and submitted, he fought best.
There are wounds on his breast that can never be healed,
There are gashes that bleed, and may not be sealed,
But wounded and gashed, he won the field.
And others may dream in their easy-chairs,
And point their white hands to the scars he bears,
But the palm and the laurel are his--not theirs!
