Prince, Bayard would have smashed his swordTo see the sort of knights you dub — Is that the last of them — O LordWill someone take me to a pub?

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward — It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored — I rose politely in the club And said, “I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?”

I’ll read "Jack Redskin on the Quest" And feed my brain with better things.

But for the Virtuous Things you do,The Righteous Work, the Public Care,It shall not be forgiven you.

Heaven shall forgive you Bridge at dawn, The clothes you wear — or do not wear — And Ladies’ Leap-frog on the lawn And dyes and drugs, and petits verres.

Talk about the pews and steeples  And the cash that goes therewith!But the souls of Christian peoples...            Chuck it, Smith!

Are they clinging to their crosses?

It is all as of old, the empty clangour, The scrawled on a five-foot page, The huckster who, mocking holy anger, Painfully paints his face with rage. * * * We that fight till the world is free, We have no comfort in victory; We have read each other as Cain his brother, We know each other, these slaves and we.

For we that fight till the world is free, We are not easy in victory: We have known each other too long, my brother, And fought each other, the world and we.

Our chiefs said 'Done,' and I did not deem it; Our seers said 'Peace,' and it was not peace; Earth will grow worse till men redeem it, And wars more evil, ere all wars cease.