Sunk are the bowers, in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall,

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,

Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ill a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

The government is very keen on amassing statistics. They collect them, add them, raise them to the nth power, take the cube root and prepare wonderful diagrams. But, you must never forget that every one of these figures comes in the first instance from the village watchman, who just puts down what he damn pleases.