Dust rose up, in a hazy yellow murk,
Century upon century, this place,
Had resisted the changing British face,
An imposing figure still bows with grace,
Upon rural fringes of men at work,

The Lord looks down with eyes blacker than space,
Perhaps with a slight hint of a rye smile,
And from different points you see them give chase,
Man of wealth and power, now laid to waste,
But his presence still remains all the while,

Incarcerated, in your canvas there,
Immortalised name, engraved on a plaque,
So for many more centuries you’ll wait,
As many still flock to wonder and stare.