Barren of goodly works,
At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st up
To Heaven three thousand Turks.
Fling high your greasy caps in air,
Slaves of the forge and loom,
If on the soil ye’re pent and starved
Yet underneath there’s room;
Fling high your caps, for, God be praised,
Your epitaph shall be,
“Who sets his foot on English soil