Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold --
Heedless be not or headless be thy trim;
How thin a strand to bind the downtrod bold
Is law's decree?  It quivers at their whim,
Like dusted snow that grey's the mountain's locks,
Each flake unseen, a pauper, cold and damp,
Wherein the voice of scorn, the hand that mocks,
May shove these brothers down steep mountain ramp
And each to each must cling and garner speed
As sisters, mothers, fathers, join the throng,
Their flags unfurled, their voices raised in song,
Onwards unto one prophecy, one deed --
    Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold;
    The time is nigh her tale shall be re-told.