London Town, hear a ditty, While we crown our comrades true "Men, not walls, make a city"
Ill befall when men are few,—
Il indeed when from his duty Into greed the burgess falls, Every hand on bribe and booty—How shall stand that city's walls?
Never yet, upon thine annals Hath been writ such a shame; Never down such crooked channels, London Town, thy commerce came.
On the poor no tyrant burden, Debt secure and sacred trust, Honest gain and generous guerdon, These remain thy record just.
Therefore still through all thy story Loyal will thy train-bands led Forth to feats of patriot glory, Back through streets with bays o'er-spread, Therefore last when loud with warning Blast on blast the muster rang, As of old all peril scorning Forth thy bold young burghers sprang Faced the fight, endured the prison, Through the night of doubt and gloom, Till the Empire's star new risen Chased afar the clouds of doom.
Therefore, when their yanks come marching Home again with flashing feet, Under bays of triumph arching City ways and City street London, lift to God thanksgiving For His yift that passes all—For thy heroes, dead and living, Who have made the City wall.
Aurnep Pencrvat Graves, in the "Spectator."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.