A weary world lies round the sea
At the centre of the earth;
A weary world awaiting death,
Or maybe a new birth,
For hedonism holds right well
The heart of king and serf.
The dying throes of empire
By dusk and day do sound;
Quite faint at times, at others loud,
Yet few could there be found,
While blood in the arena
Would gather men around
And willing men would enter in
And shed it on the ground-
Yes, few there were those echoes heard,
And those that did said not a word.
But Rome was great ere emperors
Took up the purple cloth,
Made great by good and simple men
With calculated wrath.
For generals might fight amongst,
And politics turn sour,
But every legionary-man
Stood ready for his hour.
And on the backs of men like this
The emperors rose high;
Great lustful, violent, ruthless folk
Who always meant the words they spoke,
Whose backs and spirits seldom broke,
Who looked death in the eye.
The purple-laden ones might well
Bicker like a boy,
But all the while soldiers stood
And smiled, true sons of Troy.
And civil wars might come to pass
And men be called to fight;
So fight they would, and bravely,
Be the cause of it wrong or right.
Barbarians would one day fill
The shoes of these good men;
They'd fight for Rome, and bravely,
But it was not home to them.
Pro patria- the legionary's cry;
His home was why he fought,
And he'd defend it with his life
Through any ill-begotten strife,
Protect home, children, land and wife,
Fight on without a thought.