Ireton, our dauntless Ironside,
And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless,
And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide,
In fight in faith, and council, peerless.
The bravest of our glorious brave!
The tyrant's terror in his grave.
In felon chains, they hung the dead--
The noble dead, in glory lying:
Before whose living face they fled,
Like chaff before the tempest flying.
They fled before them, foot and horse,
In craven flight their safety seeking;
And now they gloat around each corse,
In coward scoff their hatred wreaking.
Oh! God, that men could own, as kings,
Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.
Their dust is scattered o'er the land
They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory;
Their great names bear the felon's brand;
'Mongst murderers is placed their story.
But idly their grave-spoilers thought,
Disgrace, which fled in life before them,
By craven judges could be brought,
To spread in death, its shadow o'er them.
For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king,
Can make disgrace around them cling.
Their dry bones rattle in the wind,
That sweeps the land they died in freeing;
But the brave heroes rest enshrined,
In cenotaphs of God's decreeing:
Embalmed in every noble breast,
Inscribed on each brave heart their story,
All honoured shall the heroes rest,
Their country's boast--their race's glory.
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