Erect, ’midst the whirl of her waves.
Harbours she traitors and slaves,
Harpies, of gold-worship bred,
Who grope for their gain amongst graves
That hide the hosts of her dead?
(Four verses omitted.)
Vultures, what of the fight?—
Ah! but ye crowd for gain.
Little care ye for the slain.
Only your maws to cram.