Quite which refrain shall be forthcoming from the Twickenham congregation, only tomorrow will tell us.
Swing Low, maybe. But Sweet Chariot? Hardly. Not with the rank stench of avarice on one side and the bitter odour of parsimony on the other.
What is for sure is that last Saturday's heroes miscalculated the reaction of Nigel Public when they put their pay demand before patriotism.
Behind them, the English majority were not. Whether or not the faithful will still be choking on a gut-wrenching sense of betrayal when they see Argentina run out, everyone should have smelt this coming.
The seeds of discontent were sown way back before the stampede to professionalism. By their die-hard resistance to the players making financial capital off the pitch from their exploits on the field, the Colonel Blimps at HQ left their foot soldiers no alternative but to break ranks with what is quintessentially an amateur game.
By the very nature of its code, rugby is not compatible with the professional ethos.
This is a game so brutal in its basic honesty that it challenges its participants to conduct themselves according to the highest precepts of sportsmanship.
The potential for clandestine thuggery in the scrum going undetected by even the most vigilant and perceptive referee is so great that its policing relies ultimately upon the players themselves respecting the esprit de corps upon which this game for gentlemen was founded.
In this, bonus money is not the companion of honour. The richer the incentive to win, the keener the temptation to cheat.
Cash has been at the core of the southern hemisphere's domination of the oval ball, but it also manifested itself in Australia's cynical determination to avoid defeat at all costs, to which the English took such strenuous objection last weekend.
In this regard, if no other, Martin Johnson and his henchmen got it right when they asked to be paid more for appearance than for results.
Not, one suspects, that such noble concerns as rugby's tradition for arm-in-arm combat without malice and rancour were uppermost in their minds as they sat at the negotiating table. Financial security was their watchword.
How the Twickenham hierarchy must regret not having found a formula to give England's finest just that before bungling the transition to professionalism.
Was it beyond everyone's imagination to set up a substantial trust fund to protect from eventual destitution those players who were being increasingly called upon to give themselves to rugby full time?
Couldn't rugby even have invested in a range of associated businesses able to offer employment to these he-men when they retired from the game? Apparently not.
So many clubs also discovered to their prospective bankruptcy that rugby is not the People's Game but mostly a certain type of person's game.
So many of the principals in this grubby affair have been talking from a half-hidden agenda. Hence we have seen and heard two Martin Johnsons.
There was the upstanding England captain of all the sporting virtues, who was man enough in his extended hour of gratifying triumph over Australia to openly acknowledge that the world champions were without several of their key players.
Then there was the mumbling, almost embarrassed spokesperson for the most apologetic bunch of militants in trades union history.
Which is the real Martin Johnson? No- one will be keener to ascertain that than the England manager Clive Woodward, the one man to speak from the heart.
Maybe he was wrong to lose his temper with players he has defended to the hilt against injustice past, while moulding them into a team of the future.
But by all that is sacred for every Englishman who would pay to play for his country, he was so right to disown their exploitation of the national shirt for mercenary advantage.
Woodward, alone it would appear, emerges with any credit.
But it is he who is left to piece together an England team from among players who have compromised his own principles.
No, there are no winners. Only casualties of a mercenary war.
