Pity had I for my France my land
In the days so far that be,
Pity of heart and pity of hand --
And who had pity on me?
England's daughter, led out to die
For a deed of mercy and truth,
Guerdon of helper thou hast as I
From the men that have murdered ruth.
Sister of Joan by the pity, the spite,
Joy yet in the pain be thine:
We have armed our folk with a quenchless might,
Fire of thy bosom and mine.
-- J. H. S.