They lost the day but won the war
And never heard the shot
Let the mob bring out their dead
And hang them on the spot.
I miss the days when hope was fresh
And wish for times gone by
But here we are again to see
The burning of the sky.
The blessed relics brought to bear
And sacred words are said aloud
The people come to gape and stare
But nothing’s left except this shroud.
They say that freedom wants a voice
It waits for those who seek
But strong men do not find their choice
And serve the lowly meek.