Never to rule with an iron stave,
Nor a sceptre of gold,
But with the skirt of his blue robe brave
To keep thee from the cold,
And for to hold thee from the grave
Within his vesture’s fold,
Was made that sovereign that men have
These many summers told.
And never with gems crowned to be,
Nor with sable invest,
But with a branch of the brier tree
To adorn head and breast;
Yea, with a rod of the red rose,
And a wreath of the white,
He shall the whole of thee enclose
For a passing delight.
1915.