Pray for the fragile daughter,
And the frail, infant son,
Whom, at the font, the baptismal water
I pour upon.
The cycle has swung to sorrow,
Our ranks have begun to fail;
We know not what gate of Hell tomorrow
Will not prevail.
The foam-at-the-mouth is frothing
In the Beast with the flashing tooth;
The Hound that was sent on the scent of Nothing,
Has found the Truth.
The guns will be hard to handle
In the forts we will soon forsake.
Pray for the light of the single candle
On the birthday cake.