Up on the hill there, all alone,
Just where the road begins to bend,
A King stood silent beside a stone
And thought to himself, Is this the end?
Have I failed my people? God Knows, I've tried;
He made me a King - let Him decide.
His horse stood by him with drooping head,
Chest and bridle all flecked with foam,
When his stripling son came up and said
"Father, when are we going home?"
And, to the boom of a distant gun,
He answered, "We have no home, my son."
And if you go up to Seven Leas Lane
You'll see the spot and the self-same stone
Where a King stood once in the driving rain
And thought of the future, all unknown;
And as he mounted and rode away
It was more than the close of an autumn day.
Poem copyright © ERPB. All rights reserved.