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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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