“From the far-off conquered cities, Comes the voice of a stifled wail, And the shrieks and moans of the homeless Ring like the dirge of a gale.
“I have seen from the smoking village, Our mothers and daughters fly, I’ve seen where the little children, Sank down in the furrows to die.
“On the banks of the battle-stained river, I stood as the moonlight shone, And it glared on the face of my brother, As the sad wave swept him on.
“Where my home was glad, are ashes, And horror and shame had been there, For I found on the fallen lintel, This tress of my wife’s torn hair.
“They are turning the slave upon us, And with more than the fiend’s worst art. Have uncovered the fires of the savage, That slept in his untaught heart.
“The ties to our hearts that bound him, They have rent with curses away, And madden him in their madness To be almost as brutal as they.
“With halter and torch and Bible, And hymns to the sound of the drum, They preach the gospel of murder, And pray for lust’s kingdom to come.
“To saddle! my brothers! to saddle! Look up to the rising sun, And ask of the God who shines there, Whether deeds like these shall be done.
“Whither the vandal cometh, Press home to his heart with your steel, And where’er at his bosom ye cannot, Like the serpent, go strike at his heel.
“Through thicket and wood go hunt him, Creep up to his camp-fire side, And let ten of his corpses blacken, Where one of our brothers hath died.