So, swig till our lives be o'er."
Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers,
Wilder than wailing of women and men,
Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers,
Where is the harpy who owneth each den?
Where are the vultures who prey on the living?"
Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath,
Shedders of blood who each moment are giving
Children and women and strong men to Death:
"Here, here, here,"