No! he's not the man, my brothers,
To die decently like others!
Worse! he's from your cause revolted—
Run away! ske-daddled! bolted!"
Bolted! run away! skedaddled!
Like to men whose wits are addled,
Echoed all those Lights so holy,
Round the Prophet shining slowly
And the Prophet, undissembling,
Underneath the blow sat trembling,