So you cut off his hand
And left him but slav'ry or famine to choose.
Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I say
Till your legions are killed or driven away
And my country is free:
But, stay! What's that to me,
Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day?
No!! Not Peace, but Revenge! Here is my gun—
Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done:
When my bayonet's sting