VII

Oft at the hour when night’s aërial spring Waters with dew the beauty of the morn, What time another rosy day is born, Along these lanes the echoing footsteps ring Of marching men, who to their marching sing, Deep-voiced, light-hearted. Yet they do not scorn Due pause and measure, and the theme well-worn From the full heart of Germany they bring. But we, whose fathers once in songs as fine Unburdened hearts as full, and with the power Of our dear country pulsing in each line, Scorn to remember England, and to our Incomparable heritage of song Prefer the tinkle of some mean ding-dong.