Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The Kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass;
The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony
Home-felt, and home-created seems to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hush'd, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain:
Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
 With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome,
 An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
 (Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
 There's 'er mark on the medical stores—
An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
 That takes us to various wars.
 (Poor beggars!—barbarious wars!)
 Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
  An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
 The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
  O' Missis Victorier's sons.
 (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
 For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
 An' we've salted it down with our bones.
 (Poor beggars!—it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
 Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
 When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
 (Poor beggars!—we're sent to say "Stop"!)
 Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
  From the Pole to the Tropics it runs—
 To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
  An' open in form with the guns.
 (Poor beggars!—it's always they guns!)

We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
 It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
 Wherever the bugles are blown.
 (Poor beggars!—an' don't we get blown!)
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
 An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
 To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
 (Poor beggars!—it's 'ot over'ead!)
 Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
  Wherever, 'owever they roam.
 'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
  A speedy return to their 'ome.
 (Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!)