Gallants, who here patrol the sky
And strew the land with wreck of raiders.
There’s a refinement you might try
In your reception of invaders.
The German, itching to oppress,
With well-thought-out humiliation.
Says yellow patches on the dress
Must now mark out the Polish nation.
Accept the badge, then: at this time
Let every Pole show like his fellow,
And when to fierce pursuit you climb
Paint your avenging Spitfires yellow.
Gallants, a day will surely come
When you shall help to square the reckoning.
And though Fate’s judgement-voice stay dumb,
I think we see a linger beckoning.
Is it no sign when we are told
How you press home in mid-air battle
And almost to the shriek withhold
That deadly many-throated rattle?
Each of your triumphs earns a crown
Beyond what simple victory gives.
For when a German crashing down,
Men know – that Poland lives.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember
them. - Laurence
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• Last Modified: 26 May 2014, 08:14 •