Sinopsis

He was so foolish, the poor lad, He made superior people smile Who knew not of the wings he had Budding and growing all the while; Nor that the laurel wreath was made Already for his curly head. Silly and childish in his ways; They said: 'His future comes to naught.' His future! In the dreadful days When in a toil his feet were caught He hacked his way to glory bright Before his day went down in night. He fretted wiser folk--small blame! Such futile, feeble brains were his. Now we doff hats to hear his name, Ask pardon where his spirit is, Because we never guessed him for A hero in the disguise he wore.