Hark, over yonder! Le quagmire opens!

Watt leads his troops onwards
Up crest and cliff and overhang
Calling back to his seven lords
Who defeat his words with their own

A marshland circle is his horizon
Foul wisps dizzy and murk his mind
As his six sons cry from the flanks
Of enemies within and glass prisons

O'erstepping the quag in earnest
With boots of Spanish hide imported
Gulped into mud and blown in winds
Of five continents sprawled on the globe

Watt knows the gate ahead is vital
Yet trenched in steel and death-lain
Commanding four swords to be drawn
He kills his best with the order of advance

"You chosen soldiers march on to God
In his tower of Popes and Bibles
And die in honour for this Cause
With which I send you three to Heaven

"No man deserves death more than He
That foul and pestilent congregator
Shepherd to us all no more in faith
March the quag! March all to Heaven!"