The Queen's Triumph - Poem by Samuel Bamford
Hail! to the lady fair,
In innocence, who came
And turned with scorn from the proffer'd snare,
The barter of her fame—
The barter of her fame.
Where is now that threat,
So cowardly—so mean—
Wherewith this lady they beset—
Our persecuted Queen.
Hail! to our lady brave,
Whom I have sung before—
She may laugh at the fool and defy the knave,
Their power can harm no more.
And he may shed his tears,
Who tears at will can shed,
Whilst the blood doth boil in his hollow heart,
Like the fiery lava, red.
And they who sit in lawn,
From human passion free,
They will turn and pray most fervently
For 'Her Sacred Majesty.'
For there they wait with bell,
And there they wait with book—
'Keeping an eye on the corporal,'
To catch a word or a look.
The sinner may fall to hell,
The saint may 'scape to heaven,
But without a nod from 'the corporal'
Not a word of grace is given.
And he may doff his gown,
Who slandered for pay,
And he may either hang or drown,
For 'the dog hath had his day.'
Then fill the sparkling glass,
I would if I were free,
To every lad and to every lass
That would bear me company,
And holding it on high,
I'd toast that heroine,
Who hath beaten her foes so gallantly—
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