II.
Hark! the onward heavy tread—
Hark! the voices rude—
'Tis the famished cry for Bread
From an armed multitude.
They come! They come!
Not with meek submission's hum.
Bloody trophy they have won,
Ghastly glares it in the sun—
Gory head on lifted pike.
Ha! they weep not now, but strike.