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A banner, from its flashing spear Flung out o'er many a fight, A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glance— Chief! were not these things thine:

A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;— Surely these things were all thine own, So hadst thou thy reward.