Ballads Of The Free
Oh proud and noble soul,
How wretched thou art now:
For all thy labours’ toll,
The sweat upon thy brow;
Thy blood adorned the field
Where saints and tyrants fought,
When others sought to yield
To those who honoured naught;
When courage fell to woe,
And sorrows drowned in wine,
The ember still aglow
With righteous wrath was thine;
Thy battle-wearied might
Upheld the lashing sword,
That enemies of right
May reap a just reward;
Unflinching in the hail
Of clashing steel and cries,
For honour to prevail
And order to arise.
And such would be thy fame
If death had claimed thee then,
The last to bear thy name –
To see thy like again;
Oh, were it not that age
Or apathy had worn
The legend from the page
Thy legacy had borne;
Had circumstance instead
Conspired to make of thee
A martyr, ever wed
With ballads of the free;
For death is not so cruel
As living in decay,
A disimpassioned fool
Who bled for yesterday;
Enduring, cold and grim,
To see beyond return
Thy noble spirit dim,
And all thou fought for burn.