[ Shot down over the Channel ]

He who would mount on eager wing
With morning in his eyes
To climb through cloud and storm, and hurl
His challenge through the skies, —

Would scale the heights of air too thin
For toil of labouring breath,
Alone to front the foe and fling
His dare to flaming death, —

Would plunge through scathing hail of fire
And blast of screaming shell
To scourge with steel the ravening horde
Back to their hell, —

He sleeps today, how deep a sleep,
Beneath the Channel wave,
Nor heeds how well his task was done
For those he died to save.