"No glory" shall become the name of these,
who turned from God they knew to legends old.
Their blest inheritance forgot and sold,
until their land at last is on its knees -
begging forgiveness long, from conquerors cold,
whose favours never wavered from the dark.
Blackness is blacker still that had the spark,
yet left the fire of life for grinning gold.
They shall arrange to make the nations laugh -
when 'Ichabod' becomes their epitaph.