"O Long the Fiends of War shall dance"

O long the fiends of war shall danceUpon the stricken fields of France:And long and long their grisly cryShall echo up and smite the sky:O long and long the tears of GodShall fall upon a barren sod,Save when, of His great clemency,He gives men's hearts in custodyOf grim old kindly Death, who knowsThe mould is better than the rose.