Swords and Plowshares/The Boer War
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THE Lion roars, who on his sea-girt isle
Purrs ever gently at the Northern Bear
Or Transatlantic Eagle when they dare
To beard him in his den. What stirs his bile
And wakes his sleeping courage for the while?
Is it a squirrel or a reckless hare?
Such are his favorite foemen everywhere,
Witness the Irrawaddy and the Nile.
Purrs ever gently at the Northern Bear
Or Transatlantic Eagle when they dare
To beard him in his den. What stirs his bile
And wakes his sleeping courage for the while?
Is it a squirrel or a reckless hare?
Such are his favorite foemen everywhere,
Witness the Irrawaddy and the Nile.
Bold Dutchmen, in whose veins the blood still flows
Of William, and whose daring calls to mind
The ancestral fame of your degenerate foes,
Long may you wave the standard of mankind,
And never be your Fatherland controlled
By bullies maddened with the thirst for gold!
II
SWORD of the Irish, tempered by the sun
Of torrid Hindustan and by the snows
Of chill Quebec, who are the various foes,
Or north or south or east or west, undone
By your stern prowess? Do fell tyrants run
Before your bloody blade, or is it those
Whom Britain longs to crush that you oppose,
Winning new lands of slaves as yours was won?
Of William, and whose daring calls to mind
The ancestral fame of your degenerate foes,
Long may you wave the standard of mankind,
And never be your Fatherland controlled
By bullies maddened with the thirst for gold!
II
SWORD of the Irish, tempered by the sun
Of torrid Hindustan and by the snows
Of chill Quebec, who are the various foes,
Or north or south or east or west, undone
By your stern prowess? Do fell tyrants run
Before your bloody blade, or is it those
Whom Britain longs to crush that you oppose,
Winning new lands of slaves as yours was won?
O ye, who never yet have fought so well
For your own freedom as ye do to fix
Your chains on fellow nations, hear your knell
In the deep-muttered blasphemies that mix
With the last gasp of slaughtered Boers who call
Vengeance from hell on thralls who would enthrall.
III
WHY is Columbia silent, tho the hordes
Of hungry Britain overrun the veldt—
Columbia, whose soft heart was wont to melt
At every tale that history records
Of down-trod peoples and oppressive lords,
Whose sympathy lorn Kosciusko felt;
While Bolivar and Kossuth, Greek and Kelt,
Found her voice mightier than ten thousand swords?
For your own freedom as ye do to fix
Your chains on fellow nations, hear your knell
In the deep-muttered blasphemies that mix
With the last gasp of slaughtered Boers who call
Vengeance from hell on thralls who would enthrall.
III
WHY is Columbia silent, tho the hordes
Of hungry Britain overrun the veldt—
Columbia, whose soft heart was wont to melt
At every tale that history records
Of down-trod peoples and oppressive lords,
Whose sympathy lorn Kosciusko felt;
While Bolivar and Kossuth, Greek and Kelt,
Found her voice mightier than ten thousand swords?
Why is she deaf to cries for help to-day,
Such as had rent her very soul in twain
In happier times? See how she turns away
From Kruger, pleading for her aid in vain!
Alas, no longer first of freedom's lands,
She turns away to hide her bloody hands!
Such as had rent her very soul in twain
In happier times? See how she turns away
From Kruger, pleading for her aid in vain!
Alas, no longer first of freedom's lands,
She turns away to hide her bloody hands!