Clive Phillips- Wolley
And to gain a party triumph, drag your country s name through the mud?
Can ye not pull together to lift your Canada s head, Whose pride alone consoles her as she kneels by her
gallant dead? She is hurt beyond hoping or healing, yet she has not
flinched nor cried ; She is proud of the boys her Mother took, will ye not
spare her pride?
��SCRAPPED
IN the last dull flat of a river, That has all but reached the Sea, Where it pauses, half dead, to shiver
Ere it plunge in Eternity, On the mud it has purged ere it passes
Lies a warship of England s Fleet, Fouled by the slime and the grasses Impotent obsolete. . . .
Outside is the sound of the surges As they toll at the river s bar,
Above them, triumphant, emerges The thunder of Britain s war
Her mates are living the story For which she was laid and built,
They are fighting or sinking in glory- She rots alone on the silt. . .
W r as it a breeze made her shiver, By the envious years entrapped,
In the fog at the mouth of the river, Unused, obsolete, scrapped?
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