In scarcely a shelter of frost-bitten briar
A tramp slept soundly his last night of sleep
A bottle of whisky, last drunk of at midnight
Lay empty beside him poor company to keep.
Oaken boughs cracked and small ponies shivered
As the teeth of the wind and the ice made their mark
But this wretch was no wiser to wintery weather
And died in the gutter, alone in the dark.
No searchers came searching, no body was missing
In this soulless black of a January night
And the snow drifted deeper, a ghostly white cover
For the corpse of a brother who lost his last fight.