Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.
Cory.
[CXII]
THE HEAD OF BRAN
When the head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, God made a man! Cried all beholders.
Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle; He with naked fist Has brained a knight in battle.
He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers; Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.
As a street you scan That's towered by the steeple, So the head of Bran Rose o'er his people.
‘Death's my neighbour,’ Quoth Bran the blest; ‘Christian labour Brings Christian rest. From the trunk sever The head of Bran, That which never Has bent to man!
That which never To men has bowed Shall live ever To shame the shroud: Shall live ever To face the foe; Sever it, sever, And with one blow.
Be it written, That all I wrought Was for Britain, In deed and thought: Be it written, That, while I die, “Glory to Britain!” Is my last cry.