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Or die, if we can but live as slaves.

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WEARY men, what reap ye?—Golden corn for the stranger.

What sow ye?—Human corses that wait for the avenger.

Fainting forms, hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing?

Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.

There's a proud array of soldiers—what do they round your door?

They guard our masters' granaries from the thin hands of the poor.

Pale mothers, wherefore weeping?—Would to God that we were dead—

Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.

Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces,

God meant you but to smile within your mother's soft embraces.

Oh! we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying;

But we're hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying.

And some of us grow cold and white—we know not what it means;

But, as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams.

There's a gaunt crowd on the highway—are ye come to pray to man,