A thousand carven saints are lain in dust
In lands the Prussian Junker sets his boot on,
But Wilhelm Shakspeare and his honoured bust
Shall save themselves by being partly Teuton.
And when the hooves of those imperial swine
Leap, as of course they will, the ocean's borders,
And England's trampled down from Thames to Tyne,
And Wells is burnt, and Winchester, by orders,
It may be tears shall start into the eyes
Of helméd colonels in our Midland valleys,