Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,
And bring it here to me,
For I must sing another song,
The theme of which shall be,—
A worthy old philantropist,
Whose soul in goodness soars,
And one whose name will stand as firm
As the rocks that gird our shores;
The fine old Bradford gentleman,
The good Sir Titus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are,
Who all their days employ
To raise themselves, no matter how,
And better men destroy:
How different is the mind of him,
Whose deeds themselves are told,
Who values worth more nobler far
Than all the heaps of gold,

His feast and revels are not such,
As those we hear and see,
No princely splendour does he indulge,
Nor feats of revelry;
But in the orphan schools they are,
Or in the cot with her,
The widow and the orphan of
The shipwrecked mariner.

When stricken down with age and care,
His good old neighbours grieved,
Or loss of family or mate,
Or all on earth bereaved;
Go see them in their houses,
When in peace their days may end,
And learn from them the name of him,
Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live,
With high or lowly born;
His name is on the scroll of fame,
Sweet as the songs of morn;
While tyranny and villany is
Surely stamped with shame;
A nation gives her patriot
A never-dying fame.

No empty titles ever could
His principles subdue,
His queen and country too he loved,—
Was loyal and was true:
He craved no boon from royalty,
Nor wished their pomp to share,
For nobler is the soul of him,
The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philantropist,
From courtly pomp removed,
But not secluded from his friends,
For friendship’s bond he loves;
A noble reputation too
Crowns his later days;
The young men they admire him,
And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir Titus,
The darling of our town;
Around thy head while living,
We’ll weave a laurel crown.
Thy monument in marble
May suit the passer by,
But a monument in all our hearts
Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over,
And we miss thee on our isle,
Around thy tomb for ever
May unfading laurels smile:
There may the sweetest flowers
Usher in the spring;
And roses in the gentle gales,
Their balmy odours fling.

May summer’s beams shine sweetly,
Upon thy hallowed clay,
And yellow autumn o’er thy head,
Yield a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly,—
The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow-drops lightly
Upon thy honoured grave.