His wrinkled brow, and charity and love,
The fairest sisters of the heavenly train,
Go hand in hand along the faded walks,
And sit at evening by the cottage door.
There the old soldier, covered o’er with scars,
Limping along unnoticed by the crowd,
Whose liberties were purchased with his blood,
Finds ’neath the whispering elms before the door
A welcome seat; and there the little ones,
Called from their play by watchful Towser’s growl.