'Twas the gallant Golden Knight downed his visor for the fight.
All true champions delight in hard tussles.
With his yellow Standard reared at his back, no foe he feared,
And his gaze all comers queered,
There at Brussels.
Like Sir Kenneth, only more so, he expanded his fine torso.
His Standard—bold he swore so—flying proudly,
Still supreme should flow and flaunt, its defenders none should daunt.
'Twas a very valiant vaunt.
Shouted loudly.