Epilogue and Funeral March by Benjamin Britten Lyrics

Our hunting fathers told the story
Of the sadness of the creatures
Pitied the limits and the lack
Set in their finished features;
Saw in the lion’s intolerant look
Behind the quarry’s dying glare
Love raging for the personal glory
That reason’s gift would add
The liberal appetite and power
The rightness of a god

Who nurtured in that fine tradition
Predicted the result
Guessed love by nature suited to
The intricate ways of guilt;
That human company could so
His southern gestures modify
And make it his mature ambition
To think no thought but ours
To hunger, work illegally
And be anonymous?