We owe this to the countless men, women and children across generations who carried this anthem in their hearts, in the face of bullets and the hangman's noose,
We owe this to the countless men, women and children across generations who carried this anthem in their hearts, in the face of bullets and the hangman's noose,
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.
To His Son Three things there be that prosper up apace And flourish whilst they grow asunder far But on a day, they meet all in one place, And when they meet they one another mar And they be these the wood, the weed, the wag. The wood is that which makes the gallows tree The weed is that which strings the hangman's bag The wag, my pretty knave, betokeneth thee. Mark well, dear boy, whilst these assemble not, Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild But when they meet, it makes the timber rot, It frets the halter, and it chokes the child. Then bless thee, and beware, and let us pray We part not with thee at this meeting day.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories