And fight the fight out fairly to the end,
These Isles shall bear our children, as they bare our sires and mothers;
Where lives the traitor-fool who’s not their friend?
13.
Not in our shapes, Sir Singer, nor in his whom you bespatter
With too stale slime, but whom we love and trust.
He traitor, trickster, coward? Well, let time decide the matter;
Our hearts are hot, but history’s cool and just.
14.
O “man of words”—and wild ones—“men of blood,” by sorrow maddened,