Britannia Bereaved

Hither, Muse, to make some music that should soothe the brokenhearted;

Would that Britain heard your music moving through her woods this morning!

For she wakes with no protector, and no King within Caerleon.

All her dreams were of her sire, who, of late, had sat beside her

With one arm about her shoulders and another clutching iron.

Here she wakes anon from sleeping with no noble lord beside her;

Hence, her eyes, the skies, grow cloudy and will nevermore glow sunny.

Cold Calliope is silent as the marble of her statues;

Should Achaean goddess trouble over Trojan kings in exile?

Will no muse, then, cry at Camlann as they did for fair Achilles?

Then begone, O futile muses, leave the orisons to Albion.

Let the children of Saint David soothe their mother with their singing. 

Hear, O Britain! songs of mourning to surcease this sorry evening.

See your sons in sorrow with you on the Western seashore watching.