Who combed their long hair at Thermopylæ’s pass?...
Ah, I forget the straits, alas!
More tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth,
That have doomed you to march in our “immigrant class”
Where you’re nothing but “scum o’ the earth.”
II
You Pole with the child on your knee,
What dower bring you to the land of the free?
Hark! does she croon
That sad little tune