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290 MEREDITH
cxn THE HEAD OF BRAN
WHEN the head of Bran
Was firm on British shoulders,
God made a man ! Cried all beholders.
Steel could not resist
The weight his arm would rattle; He with naked fist
Has brained a knight in battle.
He marched on the foe,
And never counted numbers;
Foreign widows know
The hosts he sent to slumbers.
As a street you scan
That's towered by the steeple, So the head of Bran
Rose o'er his people.
'Death's my neighbour," Quoth Bran the blest;
'Christian labour
Brings Christian rest.
From the trunk sever The head of Bran,
That which never Has bent to man !
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