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.