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David Cleghorn Thomson
When the last gun had spoken Glad I arose and went Unto my father, substance spent And body broken. And in my brother’s eyes Envy mingled with pride— To him a grudging fate denied The boon of sacrifice. All that I strove to forget The glow of welcome blurred— Home, and the kindly spoken word, The banquet set. Let him not envy now The hero’s pedestal! Pity and privileges pall, And rust creeps slow. The grateful state is kind— It furnishes my needs, While rotting memories like weeds Feed on my fallow mind.