Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath
Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell,
Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!"
The awful aspect of the Angel Death.
As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun
The heat and burthen of the fiery day,
Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay,
And wearing meekly honours stoutly won.
Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye
Erin demanded from her bards of old,
And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold
Has waked once more her high heroic lay.
What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold
Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away.
"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"
(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)
London Town, hear a ditty,
While we crown our comrades true:
"Men, not walls, make a City;"
Ill befalls when men are few,--
Ill indeed when from his duty
Into greed the burgess falls,
Every hand on bribe and booty--
How shall stand that City's walls?
Never yet upon thine annals
Hath been writ such a shame;
Never down such crooked channels,
London Town, thy commerce came.
On the poor no tyrant burden,
Debt secure and sacred trust,
Honest gain and generous guerdon,
These remain thy record just.
Therefore still through all thy story
Loyal will thy train-bands led
Forth to feats of patriot glory,
Back through streets with bays o'erspread.
Therefore when the trumpet's warning
Out again for battle rang,
As of old all peril scorning,
Forth thy bold young burghers sprang;
Faced the fight, endured the prison,
Through the night of doubt and gloom,
Till the Empire's star new risen
Chased afar the clouds of doom.
Therefore, when their ranks came marching,
Home again with flashing feet,
Under bays of triumph arching
City ways and City Street;
London, lift to God thanksgiving
For His Gift that passes all--
For thy heroes, dead and living,
Who have made thy City Wall.