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MY first can boast a head and tail, Has feathers and an eye, And sometimes wings; yet what avail? It cannot walk or fly. And St. Paul was my first, we ’re told; And my first may be bought In bottles,—but though rare and old, Its value ’s almost naught. Out of my last my first is made, My last is in a crown; And heroes wield its shining blade For glory and renown. My whole, a marvel of brute force With human power combined; We never see it now, of course, We ’ve left it far behind.