Open the workhouse doors to-day
To the men who fought in that fearful fray;
Weary and worn and scant of breath
Are the men who rode through the valley of Death;
But, clad in the pauper’s garb of shame,
They are getting the meed of their deathless fame.
These are the heroes our poet sang
When over the world their story rang;
These are the heroes, gnarled and bent,
With the tale of whose deeds the skies were rent;
These are the soldiers whose fame’s writ large
On the glorious page of that deathless charge.
Open the workhouse doors to-day
To the penniless heroes old and gray;
In each wrinkled face is a soldier’s pride,
They have won the guerdon so long denied,
And we honour their deed with—what do you think?—
A benefit at a skating rink!