'And wheresoe'er her standard flings
Forth its folds of shame,
A people's cries to heaven arise
For vengeance on her name!'
But for passionate expression, one cannot, as I have already said, look to the comparatively new and artificial English ballad form; one must go to the Irish, with its long tradition. Here is a poem, 'The Curse of the Boers on England,' which I have translated literally from the Irish:—
'O God, we call to Thee,
This hour and this day,
Look down on this England
That has come down in our midst.
'O God, we call to Thee,
This day and this hour,
Look down on England,
And her cold, cold heart.
'It is she was a Queen,
A Queen without sorrow;
But we will take from her,
Quietly, her Crown.
'That Queen that was beautiful
Will be tormented and darkened,
For she will get her reward
In that day, and her wage.
'Her wage for the blood
She poured out on the streams;
Blood of the white man,
Blood of the black man.
'Her wage for those hearts
That she broke in the end;
Hearts of the white man,
Hearts of the black man.
'Her wage for the bones
That are whitening to-day;
Bones of the white man,
Bones of the black man.
'Her wage for the hunger
That she put on foot;
Her wage for the fever,
That is an old tale with her.