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Songs of the Road

by Arthur Conan Doyle

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The Empire

1902

They said that it had feet of clay,
     That its fall was sure and quick.
In the flames of yesterday
     All the clay was burned to brick.

When they carved our epitaph
     And marked us doomed beyond recall,
“We are,” we answered, with a laugh,
     “The Empire that declines to fall.”

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