The defeated man climbs slowly o'er the gate,
The Briton homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves Europe for darkness due to hate.
Now fades the glimm'ring future on the night,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where UKIP man preens his droning spite,
As lousy thinking doth infect the polls;
Save us from yonder lonely tow'r
The moping spirit tabloid to the mass complain
And so, Britannia finds her secret bow'r,
Returns to her ancient solitary reign.
For Cameron no more number 10's hearth shall burn,
The tired PM shows his evening care:
84 Tories write to save their sire's concern,
Or vie to have his envied role to share.
Beneath that rugged hair, that blonded shade,
Heaves Boris Johnson's mould'ring heap,
Is in his narrow mind for ever laid,
The rude leaver of Europe, asleep.
That breezy call in a Scottish Morn,
The Sturgeon twitt'ring from the stone-built stead,
The crow's shrill clarion, or her echoing horn,
No more shall Union keep Scots from their EU bed.
Oft did Ireland to their violence yield,
Their divided soul the cycle had been broke;
How quickly will they take their guns to wield!
As borders rise and calls to unite occur in one stroke!
The day with markets in sad array
The currency's downward path we saw it borne.
Approach with dread where the economy will lay,
Grav'd on the stone where we will mourn.
Here he rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A hostage to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Albion frown'd on EU's worth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Never has Thomas Grey's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard seemed so apt and poignant
on this sad day
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