What is my music? Hard-wrung groans
From strong men stricken down:
Women's and children's feebler moans,
And the slow death-bell's muffled tones
In every town.
Who are my lieges? Those that rule
In Vestry and at Board;
The Town-hall's glib and giddy fool,
The mob's most abject slave and tool
Though called its lord.