THE last Queen of England
Sits on her throne,
And doom moves
In the cold stone.
She holds her scepter,
She wears her crown,
But evil gathers
In village and town.
The last brave admiral
Plows the brine;
But night has taken
The Argentine.
And where the nations
Speak together
Is cold regard
And bitter weather.
The bells ring
In the empty steeple.
They bring no hope
To frightened people.
With our last breath
Let us try to pray
For those we love
To whom we may.