She fought and bled, nor wearied of the fight
Till from that land where walked the Nazarene
She drove the foul and pestilential Turk?
Ah, what has England done? No need to ask!
Upon the fields of Flanders and of France
A million crosses mark a million graves;
Upon each cross a well-loved English name.
And, ah, her women! On that peaceful isle,
Where in the hawthorn hedges thrushes sang,
And meadow-larks made gay the scented air,