They called me “black-leg,” “dastard,” harsh or name,
    But well I knew that infants must be fed;
    I saw sick women dying—old men dead.
I would not break my word and bring dark shame
Right round the world on British workman’s name.
    Man doth not live alone by wheaten bread,
    Wherefore I followed not the cry that led
To fires of anarchy which none can tame.

And tho’ around my head the innocent air
    Was filled with fierce persuasion—brickbats, curse,
    I faltered not, and sudden seemed to see
A face thorn-crowned but full of love and care,
    And heard, “The cross is hard, no cross is worse,
    Who serveth others shall himself be free.”

(Wigton Advertiser, 26 August 1911, p. 5)