For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
Macaulay.
LXXXVIII
THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN
A GOOD sword and a trusty hand !
A merry heart and true ! King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why !
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he : 'If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!
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