'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit,
Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"
Your horn, like great Roland's, through high lands and low lands,
From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up.
We need its loud rallies, or our Roncesvallês
Will come,—when there will be a flare-up!
'Tis surely not rifted? When Roland uplifted
His Olifant, everyone heard it
For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound,
And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.