A straight standing soldier,
From his crest to his toe,
Combating all darkness,
His primary foe.
Though 'tis unfair,
It's the profession he chose,
The longer he fights,
The shorter he grows.
It could be a candle.
A dad and his four boys stand in line.
All crowned, they toil in darkness.
Another family they see, two birds of a feather.
All of them together clad in leather.
What are they?
A wide tin soldier on guard at his post, holding his banner high.
When orders come in, he drops down his chin and into his head they fly.
What am I?