THREE Alfreds let us honour. Him who drove

His foes before the tempest of his blade

At Ethandune--him first, the all-glorious Shade,

The care-crowned King whose host with Guthrum strove.

Next--though a thousand years asunder clove

These twain--a lord of realms serenely swayed;

Victoria's golden warbler, him who made

Verse such as Virgil for Augustus wove.

Last--neither King nor bard, but just a man

Who, in the very whirlwind of our woe,

From midnight till the laggard dawn began,

Cried ceaseless, " Give us shells--more shells," and so

Saved England; saved her not less truly than

Her hero of heroes saved her long ago.