Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells 
To the green-vista?d gladness of the past 
That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells 
To a joyful chime; but let it be the last. 

What means this metal in windy belfries hung
When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells 
Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue 
Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells. 

Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim 
That `if our Lord returned He?d fight for us.?
So let our bells and bishops do the same, 
Shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus.