Crashed into the quivering brain,
And the swarthy fiends in fury
Tore the scalp-skins from the slain.
Gray-haired elders, whom your father
Knew as friends in days of yore,
You had joy to see their corses
Welter in their oozing gore.
Mothers lying mangled, dying,
In their throes made deeper moans
As they saw the skulls of infants