Shall we see our dear Nestor go by? Will the windows be down? Will he wave us a great goodbye As he leaves this town? Oh no, he is not as strong As of old when his work Was a Quixote's wrestle with wrong For Celt—against Turk. I am going to London today: I may watch and take note: I've a seat at a poignant play, And a lump in my throat. 'God bless you!' we cry as he goes To his place in the train. The Hero who struck at such woes Is pallid with pain. Will an eloquent voice be heard? Will he strike his old note? Will he scourge the Debased and Absurd, Nor dream of a vote? Lo, a light of old on that face, A fire from above! God bless you all in this place And the land you love! |