(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)He was a soldier in that fight Where there is neither flag nor drum, And without sound of musketry The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night They forced him to a slow retreat, And for his gallant fight alone No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist The gray grim battle had its end --And at the very last we knew His enemy had turned his friend.
