December, 1887.
In a foreign land, in a lonesome city,
With few to pity, to know, or care,
I sleep each night while my heart is burning.
And wake each morning to new despair.
Let no one venture to ask my story
Who believes in glory or trusts in fame;
Yes! I have within me such demons in keeping
As are better sleeping without a name.
For many a day of blood and horror,
And night of terror and work of dread,
I have rescued nought but my honour only,
And this aged, lonely, and whitening head.
Not a single hope have I seen fulfilled
For the blood we spilled when we cast the die;
And the future I painted in brightness and pride
Has the present belied, and shall still belie.
In this far-off country, this city dreary,
I languished weary, and sad, and sore,
Till the flower of youth is gloom o’er-shaded
Grew seared, and faded for evermore.
Oh, my land! From those driven – our old flag furled –
I renounced the world when I went from thee;
My heart lingers still on its native strand,
And American land holds nought for me.
Through a long live contriving, hoping, striving,
Driven and driving, leading and led;
I have rescued nought but my honour only,
And this aged, lonely, and whitening head.