“I am with the wounded,” flashed along the wire
from the isle of Cuba, swept with sword and fire.
Angel sweet of mercy, may your cross of red
Cheer the wounded living; bless the wounded dead.
“I am with the starving,” let the message run
From this stricken island, when this task is done;
Food and money plenty wait at your command.
Give in generous measure; fill each outstretched hand.
“I am with the happy,” this we long to hear
From the isle of Cuba, trembling now in fear.