Attend you the voices of the ministers, there crying
aloud pangyrics for the tragic dying
of the great men, (and the small in fulsome number)
To wow sufficient, with sufficient thunder
From the flag-draped podium, funerally erected.
Of city and province, field and town;
The public mourners shuffle around
with hats on hearts and onion-teary eyed;
Chant their Homeland's songs of Patriot pride
For the human dead.
On every corner, for a little cash,
The swell-brest' National buys his starred sash;
drops the charitable quarter at the benefit feast
And wonders whenever, in time of peace,
did fly his flag so free?