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.

Stephen Gwynn