Grey broke the light of that Sabbath dawn
  On the English pickets,
Gold rose the sun o'er the unreaped corn
  And the Hainault thickets.
Through the park at home, where the young rooks caw'd.
And the dew lay deep on the churchyard sward,
Went Mary, arisen to meet her Lord —
While Mons must be held for England.

Clear broke the day as the bugles blew, —
  Who shall hear them to-morrow?
Sternly the thunder of Edom grew,
  And the tally of sorrow.
Right wing, left wing, centre attacked,
Legions launched like a cataract.
But the English stood to their plighted pact, —
Yes, Mons must be held for England!

Pitiless noon, when the screaming shard
  Left the air acrid.
But they looked on Malplaquet and Oudenarde,
  So the soil was sacred.