But by the tale these soft white fingers tell,
And that rich bloom which on your cheeks is seen,
Ye seem to have been reared at British fires,
And drawn your parentage from Flemish sires.
My friends, this wide-spread languor and decay,
Which for yourselves hath borne such bitter fruit,
Nerves up your fallen foes to sterner fray,
And brings to nought your valour and repute.
This city's walls, that stand as firm to-day
As battled rock, are witnesses to boot