In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt, A strain of the strong Saxon thew; From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South―― An American type through and through. A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say, Who lived in the far remote past,―― An unpractical man and careless forsooth; Inclined as a youth to be fast. He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats, And once on a time rolled the dice, But heart like an ox and muscled like steel; A dreamer? Yes, without price. He filled no great niche in the town where he lived, Was never considered worth while. The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky And mentioned his name with…
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