And they thought (who knows?) on some Surrey lane,
On some mother's kiss, or some school refrain,
And they tightened the girths of their saddles again,
Since Mons must be held for England.

Red set the sun in the angry skies
  Ere the fight was over.
Fierce were the beams of the cruisers' eyes
  By the cliffs of Dover.
News — ill news — for Namur is lost!
No need for the Eagle to count the cost.
But Mons was the merest hill at the most,
Yet Mons had been held for England.

Lord, Who hast known what a slain Son is,
  Judge Thou their labor!
Lifted they eyes to the vanities?
  Deceived their neighbor?
Sift Thou the souls that are utterly Thine,
Clean are those cold hands of covert design;
Silent they lie in their last long line,
Who died to hold Mons for England!