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.