THE HEAD OF BRAN THE BLEST

When the Head of Bran

Was firm on British shoulders,

God made a man!

Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist

The weight his arm would rattle;

He, with naked fist,

Has brain'd a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe,

And never counted numbers;

Foreign widows know

The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan,

That's towered by the steeple,

So the Head of Bran

Rose o'er his people.