By nineteen-eighteen – mercy from of old!
God gave a sweet reprieve for long-dreamed peace;
the rural boys, from Field of Cloth of Gold,
departed home, but wept for that surcease;
for though the evils of the bombs were quelled,
and cooled was all the nations’ rivalry,
there was a silence, not so fast dispelled,
where once were hymns and songs of revelry.
Despite the sunlit upland, far away,
our children lost their hopes in that sharp sting,
and New World came to force and hold its sway:
Republic, enemy of crown and king.
Democracy has claimed the worldly, since;
a bitter shower, for our sins to rinse.


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