The surging human tide?
There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head,
Hands of supplication,
Multiplying mystic bread
For her famished nation.
"Children thus remember
My poor and Me!" He spoke,
And in her palace chamber
Weeping she awoke.





THE WELSH FISHERMEN

(To the air of "The Song of the Bottle")


Up, up with the anchor,
Round, round for the harbour mouth!
Wind, boys, and a spanker
Racing due south!
Where 'ood you be going?
How, now can ye hoist your sails?
When blossoms be blowing
Over Welsh Wales!
Dear hearts for the herring,
Sure, after the herring,
Hot after the herring,