These smoking hearths of fair and peaceful lands,
This reeking trail of deeds abhorred of Hell,
They cry aloud for vengeance at your hands,
Ruthless and swift and fell.
Strike, then—and spare not—for the innocent dead
Who lie there, stark beneath the weeping skies,
As though you saw your dearest in their stead
Butchered before your eyes.
And though the guiltless pay for others guilt
Who preached these brute ideals in camp and Court;