Deep in her sons, and the Wingate blood, She stamped her sigil of fortitude. Thrift and love for the house and the chief And a scone on the hob for the son of grief. But a knife in the ribs for the pleasant thief. And deep in her sons, when she was gone, Her words took root, and her ghost lived on. The slow voice haunting the ocean-shell To counsel the sons of her sons as well. And it was well for the Wingate line To have that stiffening set in its spine. For once in each breeding of Wingate kin There came a child with an olive skin And the mouth of Charles, the merry and sad, And the bright, spoilt charm that Monmouth had. Luckily seldom the oldest born To sow the nettle in Wingate corn And let the cotton blight on its stalk While he wasted his time in witty talk, Or worse, in love with no minister handy, Or feeding a spaniel on nuts and brandy And taking a melancholy pride In never choosing the winning side.