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On every tongue shall be their name;
In every land shall live their fame.
But fouler than the noisome dust,
That reeks your rotting bones encasing,
Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust,
And sloth, and every vice debasing!
Insulters of the glorious dead,
While honour in our land is dwelling,
Above your tombs shall Britons tread,
And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling--
"HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES,
WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."


BOW-MEETING SONG.
BY REGINALD HEBER.

Ye spirits of our fathers,
The hardy, bold, and free,
Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field
A fourfold enemy!
From us who love your sylvan game,
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name
Who so bravely bent the bow.
'Twas merry then in England
(Our ancient records tell),
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who braved a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,
And his only friend the bow.


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