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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Tom Paine

Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (3044 reads)
An Englishman was Thomas Paine...

An Englishman was Thomas Paine
       Who bled for liberty;
But while his fight was far from vain
       He died in poverty:
Though some are of the sober thinking
       'Twas due to drinking.

Yet this is what appeals to me:
      Cobbet, a friend, loved him so well
He sailed across the surly sea
      To raw and rigid New Rochelle:
With none to say: 'Take him not from us!'
      He raped the grave of Thomas.

And in his library he set
      These bones so woe-begone;
I have no doubt his eyes were wet
      To scan that skeleton.
That grinning skull from which in season
      Emerged the Age of Reason .

Then Cobbet in his turn lay dead,
      And auctioneering tones
Over his chattels rudely said:
      'Who wants them bloody bones?'
None did, so they were scattered far
      And God knows where they are.

A friend of Franklin and of Pitt
      He lived a stormy span;
The flame of liberty he lit
      And rang the Rights of Man.
Yet pilgrims from Vermont and Maine
In hero worship seek in vain
      The bones of Thomas Paine

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