Which now, with blood-hot sighs,
Stamps o'er the shuddering earth.
True to the earth, the bread-giving earth,
Happy and cheery in business and trade,
Peaceful we sat in the oak tree's shade,
Peaceful,
Though we were born to the sword.
Circled around us, for ever and ever,
Greed, sick with envy, and nets lifted high,
Full of inherited hatred.