Poem for June 30, 2024

I cannot know what country owns thee now,

With France's forest lilies on thy brow.

When England knew thee thou wert passing fair;

I never knew a foreign face so rare.

The world of waters rolls and rushes bye,

Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie.

But surely France must be a pleasant place

That greets the stranger with so fair a face;

The English maiden blushes down the dance,

But few can equal the fair maid of France.

I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine,

And the last song I ever wrote is thine.

Thy country's honour on thy face attends;

Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.