Shall soulmongers be held of us
Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold,
Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold
Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus,
Lest British Mammon scold.
Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies,
The tale of suffering blurs and burkes,
Hides his own murderous ways and works.
Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes—
In Russians, or in Turks.