You that run the reddened ditch among the drifted leaves br May set the pace to conquerors and guide the sons of kings! br You that on your stealthy feet go through the wood like thieves br May lead your troop, a hundred horse, when once a holloa rings! br You that, if you lay in death, the poorest churl would pass- br You whose brush and mask and pads there's not a tramp would take- br Can set the pride of England riding jealous on the grass br And captains, earls, and countesses contending in your wake! br You're vermin to a vast of folk, but glory to a few.