A curse upon Cheshire,
Its cowardly fear,
That drew not a sword
For the Young Chevalier!
God prosper brave Lancashire,
Stalwart for aye!
Proud Preston may droop,
But her rose shall not die.
God’s rest to the clansmen,
The Jacobite dead,
Who sleep where Culloden’s
White roses are red!
GLADYS IN THE WOODLAND
THE birds of the woodland pause
As her footsteps pass:
Her song is as golden rain
In the singing grass.
Borne in the haunted air
By a fairy breeze,
Her song is as star-dust strewn
Through the laughing trees.
The song of the primal dawn
Of God’s sunrise,
The song Our Lady sings
By the Brook of Paradise.
A SOCIAL FAVOURITE
FROM Marble Arch to Holland Park,
They liked his gentle ways,
A youth who roused no rude remark,
But very often praise.
When paying calls at afternoon
A careful way he picked;
He let the cat ungallèd croon,
The poodle drowse unkicked.