So dark it was in the candle-lit workhouse-ward
When, after his day's work was over, at last the son came
To visit his dying father, old Philip implored
Young Philip to strike him a match, that his eyes by the flame
On the face of a kinsman might look once again before night
Should seal their vision for ever from earthly light.

So, young Philip striking a match, the ailing man took
A last long look at the stripling's uplifted head:
And then he turned to the wall with a happy look,
And spoke to an unseen presence beside the bed —
Ay, lass, it's a laddie — a son who will still carry on,
And keep up the name of the Lilburns, when we're dead and gone.

The flame flickered down; and young Philip swore as it burned
His fingers; and dropping the spent match, and striking another,
Again to the low truckle-bed he eagerly turned,
As half-expecting to look on his long-dead mother
There in the shade; but he only looked into the night
Of the eyes whose light had gone out with the match's light.