His hat looks worn, and his coat-sleeves shine,
As I see him step from his -bus at nine;
His boots are pieced and his tie home-made,
And his trousers patched where the edge was frayed,
And his face is lined by the stress of life
Where a man must fight for his bairns an wife.
-Who-s that?� I ask, as his face I scan.
And the answer comes--O, an average man.�
He has not got notes, he has not got gold,
But his homely lunch, in his handbag old;
And day by day, as the seasons go,
He follows his duty to and fro,
And shadows follow him everywhere-
Grim want, and worry, and dread are there,
For life is not on a gorgeous plan-
Far, far from it-to the average man.

The floods, the banks, and the curtailed screw,
The weekly bills, and the grasping Jew,
The servant-s wage and the doctor-s fee,
And the needful change by the breezy sea,
And the pent-up hours at the desk, which mean
A man-s brain changed to a mere machine,
And a wife-s tired eyes and the children wan,
All press like lead on the average man.

When the blood is up -tis a simple thing
To charge where the bombs and the bullets sing.
But he is worthy a higher place
Who fronts his woes with a smiling face,
For the noblest strife in our life to-day
Is the humdrum fight in the humdrum way.
O, wealth and genius may lead the van,
But the hero is often an average man.