Classic Poem

Outwit me, Lord, if ever hence
This unremembering brain
Should urge these most inconstant feet
To quit Thy side again.

Be not too sure of me though death
Still find me at Thy side,—
Let Pain, Thy soldier, break my legs
Before I shall have died.

And when at length this heart is stopped,
Leave not a final chance,
But send some kind centurion,
An expert with the lance.