The tardy dawn has burst in sullen fire,
Grey mists along the level acres lift,
The pilot looks upon his heart's desire,
A clean sky with the westering cloud adrift.
There in the height of his plane
Will mount, and climb again,
And there his spirit, breathing power, will rise
Swift as a swallow's, free, in English skies.

So clear the air; he drinks it as he smiles.
This is his element, his realm of dreams,
In measureless immensity of miles,
Swirling beneath a vault of stellar beams.
For this he grew and planned,
To claim with eye and hand
Unhindered passage where no feet may tread,
Where men, like migrant birds, use wings instead.

His helmet fixed, he gives the word and then,
Waving his squadron as their engines start,
He soars and sings above the world of men,
The beat of battle racing in his heart.
In mortal combat there,
Far in the upper air,
He fights for freedom, one of freedom's sons,
Lone in his aery sphere of blue and bronze.

What destiny is his he does not know;
He does not ask, for asking names a fate;
He goes where duty summons him to go,
He'd sweep undaunted up to heaven's gate.
He holds one purpose well,
In flying to excel,
To roll and loop and bank and dive and spin,
To meet the foe in battle, and to win.

This is the Happy Warrior, this is he.
On his gay courage all we love depends;
His is the valiant heart that keeps us free;
By him a Commonwealth its life defends.
We praise he hands and eyes,
Knight of our war-torn skies,
True son of Britain, fearless in his faith,
Ready to serve her, even unto death.

Discovered by Dave Homewood in 2004 from Christmas 1942 Contact magazine. Courtesy key.aero forum