A curse for England, false and base
Where nothing can prosper but disgrace
Where crushed is each flower's tender form,
And decay and corruption feed the worm . . .
The winner's shout, the loser's curse
Go with Old England's black funeral hearse . . .
SLEEP SWEETLY IN YOUR HUMBLE GRAVE
Sleep sweetly in your humble grave
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen Cause,
Though yet no marble column crave
The pilgrim here to pause.
In seeds of laurel in the earth
The blossom of your fame is blown,
And somewhere, waiting for its birth,
The shaft is in the stone.
Stoop, angels, hither from the skies
There is no holier spot of ground,
Than where defeated valour lies,
By mourning beauty crowned
Further copies are available
1 – 5 @£10.00 each / 5 plus at £7.50 each
Cheques (M McLaughlin) or cash to
20 Hampden Way,
Acrefair, Nr. Wrexham
North Wales. UK LL14 3UP