Wherever his leprous fingers came
They drew from the strings a groan of glory:
How the song enchanted them til they were in fancy the good warriors of God, and they shouted their enemy’s battle-cry.
Then we dreamed at last,
Then we lost the past,
We dreamed we were angels in battle-array:
We tore our hearts with God’s battle-yell
And the sound crashed up from the smoky fen
And the battle sweat stood forth
On the awful brows of our fighting men: