Shades of Achilles and Leonidas Memories of Leuctra and Thermopyle If blood can mantle still for those that The Styx in Charon's bark to where there be Elysian years; brave hearts, if ye can see Your country spite of centuries' decease, How cheeks must crimson at the obloquy Oh! Prate no more of "Gallant Little Greece.
Lord of the Lyre, who mourned a day that was And hoped to see a nationality Spring from dry bones, thy Samian wine Again is seeming doomed by Fate's To be a type of hopeless augury.
Dash down yon cup anew and Tet each Tell of hope chattered that once lived in thee.
Oh! Prate no more of "Gallant Little Greece."
Hang up the falchion, doff the vain cuirass.
For whom did Byron write: ' Who would be free, Himself must strike the blow"? You bags of gas, OF the eheos hunted Piaf nek even Unworthy of your classic pedigree
three A bayonet's point gives the pent air release, The bubble pricked, its pretty colours flee.
Oh! prate no more of Gallant Little Greece."
The fearsome Lion's skin has slipped and we Are looking on a game of Fox and Geese Avails no more your mock heroic plea. Oh! Proto no more of Gallant Little Greece."
Svastisa.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.