The boys he knew are grey, old men, and soon their sons shall lay them
To rest beside the little church upon the spur of hill:
The distant hum of chant and prayers, the feet of them that pray them,
The sunlight and the blackbirds' song shall be about them still.
But he's a homeless wanderer from Rio Grande to Malabar,
And God knows who shall stand by him, or what his end shall be.
The wheeling gulls shall cry his dirge, the great waves drum his burial,
When his poor old battered body slips into the greedy sea.