Brother, You’ll Take My Hand

NOT to the sober and staid, Leading a quiet life, But to men whose paths are laid Ever through storm and strife— Here is a song from me, Sent to the tragic West, Message of sympathy To the hearts that can never rest. This is the song I send Out to the Western land— Sinner, and martyr, and friend, Brother! you’ll take my hand. To you who have loved and lost; To you whose souls have died Cursing a fair false face And the red warm lips that lied; Loved with a boyish love, With a love that was pure and true, That set one woman above The world that was known to you; Eating your heart out now Alone on a waste of sand— I have been played with too. Brother! you’ll take my hand. To you who were loved too well, And who cast that love aside When your vanity was replete And your passion was satisfied— Haunted now day and night; Haunted in every place By the eyes of a suicide, Set in a dead girl’s face. Crouched in your misery Out where the stars are grand— O I am haunted too! Brother! you’ll take my hand. To you who had wealth or name, Friends, love, and a future fair, And who sacrificed all for drink And the nights of Leicester Square: In by the drunken town, Out on the barren tramp, Pacing it up and down Alone by the listening camp; Crouched in your agony, Hiding your eyes with your hand— I had the ball at my feet— Brother! I understand. There is a light for all; Hold up your head and live! Forgive the woman who wronged, And the dead girl will forgive. Brood not, but work for good; Work in the world of men— Strong is the man who fell And rose from the depths again. There shall be peace for you, Sinners, who win the land. I would fight upward too— Brother! you’ll take my hand.