Email Poem

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Poem

Hark, compatriots of mine, hark that ye all may hear
a song that yet may cheer your hearts and prompt a bashful tear.

We man the good ship Albion upon this storm-tossed sea.
Our native rights we must defend and the cause of liberty.

Though now Britannia's sway has passed upon the ocean waves,
we still affirm full-heartedly: Britons will ne'er be slaves!

Not one of us will fail his friend; not one of us will flinch,
but each of us will stand his ground, not one will yield an inch.

Not one of us deserts our cause. Desertion, that's for rats!
Shall we who beat Napoleon bow down to bureaucrats?

That song is growing fainter now, and soon it may be still,
but  in my heart I hear it yet, and guess I always will.

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