A-fighting for my little brood,
To win them shelter, shoon and food;
But most of all to give them faith
In God’s good mercy unto death.
My sons have medals gleaming bright,
Proud trophies won in foreign fight;
But though their crosses bravely shine,
My boys can show no wounds like mine –
Grim gashes dolorously healed,
And inner ailings unrevealed.
Life-lasting has my battle been,
My enemy a fierce machine;
And I am marked by many a blow
In conflict with a tireless foe,
Till warped and bent beneath the beat
Of life’s unruth I own defeat.
Yet strip me bare and you will see
A worthy warrior I be;
Although no uniform I’ve worn,
By wounds of labour I am torn;
Leave the their ribbands and their stars . . .
Behold! I proudly prize my scars.

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