When over the sea the children spoke,
And groaning turrets rocked again as we went out and in.
We have no passions to call our own, we work for serf or lord,
Load us well and sponge us clean—
Be your woman a slave or queen—
And we will clear the road for you who hold us by the sword.
We come into our own again and wake to life anew—
Put your paper and pens away,
For the whole of the world is ours to-day,
And we shall do the talking now to smooth the way for you.