The old hands shaped the furrowed field, the hammer rang, the ship set sail,
They paid their due in blood and toil, yet now their voices thin and pale.
For Government counts not debt but votes, and bids the strangers take their seat,
While those who built the house of stone are left with dust beneath their feet.
The fires grow cold, the larders bare, the winter winds cut sharp and deep,
Yet golden coin from coffers flows where foreign tongues rise up to speak.
The grey-haired throng may fade away, their empty bowls left in the frost,
For rulers count not honour’s weight, but ballots won and elders lost.
(By John Shenton)