For a pure woman to share his home and sit beside his fire;
Joys like these he has maybe desired, but living and dying wild,
He has never known of a maiden's love nor felt the kiss of a child.
"In life he was worth some shillings a day when there was work to do,
In death he is worth a share of the clay which in life he laboured through;
Wipe the spume from his pallid lips, and quietly cross his hands,
And leave him alone with the Mother Earth and the Master who understands."
My mate seemed very much impressed by the poem, and remained silent for a long while after I had finished reading it from the dirty scrap of tea-paper on which it was written.
"Have you ever cared a lot for some one girl, Flynn?" he asked suddenly.
"No," I answered, for I had never disclosed my little love affair to any man.