But worse than these, who simply shirk,
Are those employed to fashion arms,
Who tempt their fellows not to work,
And give us all such grave alarms—
Traitors! If their deserts they got
They would be either hanged or shot.
The wind blows shrewdly here to-night,
My heart bleeds, as I think, perchance,
How numbed with cold our heroes fight;
How chill those trenches, there in France.