For wherever you may wander you will find your fame has gone,
For you are outcasts from the lists, with rust upon your sword—
The blood of many innocents—of children newly born.
You are bestial men and beastly, and we would not ask you home
To meet our wives and daughters, for we doubt that you are clean;
You will find your fame in front of you wherever you may roam,
You—who came through burning Belgium with the ladies for a screen.
You—who love to hear the screaming of a girl beneath the knife,
In the midst of your companions, with their craning, eager necks;
When you crown your German mercy, and you take a sobbing life—