The lords of thy line will be mournful,
The princes of might will be downcast,
The pride of high birth will avail not;
When thou, their great Head, hast been smitten
The pains of grim Want will assail them.
Then with bitterness will they remember
The glory and fame of thy greatness,
Thy triumphs so worthy of envy,
Until, while comparing the present
With years that are gone now forever,