 | Uncollected verses by Francis Thompson |  |
16
CRICKET VERSES
DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA
Woe is me, fair White Rose!
It is a bitter stead,
That thou should'st fall unto false Southron,
And not to thy Sister Red.
Woe is me, my Red, Red Rose!
Woe and shameful plight,
When the Red Rose falls to the South blast
And not to the Rose of White!
It is a bitter stead,
That thou should'st fall unto false Southron,
And not to thy Sister Red.
Woe is me, my Red, Red Rose!
Woe and shameful plight,
When the Red Rose falls to the South blast
And not to the Rose of White!
When Red Rose met White on Bramall grass,
And turned not back from each other; alas,
Had the Red Rose smote the White Rose,
Or the White Rose smote the Red,
Or ever bent to the soft Southron
The stubborn Northern Head!
And turned not back from each other; alas,
Had the Red Rose smote the White Rose,
Or the White Rose smote the Red,
Or ever bent to the soft Southron
The stubborn Northern Head!
O Red Rose, O White Rose,
Set you but side by side,
And bring against you the leaguèd South,
You might their shock abide;
Yea, bring against you the banded South,
With all their strength allied,
My White Rose, my Red Rose
Could smite their puissance i' the mouth!
Set you but side by side,
17
You might their shock abide;
Yea, bring against you the banded South,
With all their strength allied,
My White Rose, my Red Rose
Could smite their puissance i' the mouth!
| Uncollected verses by Francis Thompson | |