Songs of the Army of the Night
Francis William Lauderdale Adams
Songs of the Army of the Night
TO EDITH
“My sweet, my child, through all this night Of dark and wind and rain,Where thunder crashes, and the light Sears the bewildered brain,“It is your face, your lips, your eyes I see rise up; I hearYour voice that sobs and calls and cries, Or shrills and mocks at fear.“O this that’s mine is yours as well, For side by side our feetTrod through these bitter brakes of hell. Take it, my child, my sweet!”PREFACE
A few words of preface seem necessary in sending out this little book. It is to be looked on as the product of the life of a social worker in England, in his travels, and in Australia. The key-note of the First Part – “England” – is desperation, or, if any hope, then “desperate hope.” A friend once reported to me a saying of Matthew Arnold’s, that he did not believe in any man of intelligence taking a desperate view of the social problem in England. I am afraid that saying relegates me to the ranks of the fools, but I am content to remain there. I believe that never since 1381, which is the date of the Peasants’ Revolt, has England presented such a spectacle of the happiness of the tens, of the misery of the millions. It is not by any means the artisan, or the general or the agricultural labourer, who is the only sufferer. All society groans under the slavery of stupendous toil and a pittance wage. The negro slavery of the Southern States of America was better than the white slavery of to-day all over the earth, but more particularly in Europe and in America. Capitalism is built on the dreadful wrong of recompensing Labour, not according to the worth of its work, but according to the worth of its members in the market of unlimited competition, and that soon comes to mean the payment of what will hold body and soul together when in the enjoyment of health and strength. Landlordism is built on the dreadful wrong of sharing with Capitalism the plunder of Labour. Why are rents high in Australia? Because here Labour is scarcer, its wages correspondingly higher, and therefore Landlordism steps in to filch from Labour its hard-won comforts, and once more reduce it to the necessities of existence. The American slavers had to spend more in housing and keeping any fixed number of their slaves in serviceable condition than Capitalism spends in wages. Capitalism and Landlordism, like good Christian Institutions, leave the living to keep alive their living, and the dead to bury their dead. This cannot continue for ever. At least all the intelligent portion of the community will grow to see the injustice and attempt to abolish it. But when will the great mass of unintelligent people who have won a large enough share of the plunder of their fellows to minister to their own comforts – when will these, also, awake and see? England will realize the desperation of her social problem when its desperation is shown her by fire and blood – then, and not till then! What shall teach her her sins to herself is what is even now teaching her her sins to Ireland.
I make no apology for several poems in the First Part which are fierce, which are even blood-thirsty. As I felt I wrote, and I will not lessen the truth of what inspired those feelings by eliminating or suppressing the record of them. Rather, let me ask you, whoever you be, to imagine what the cause was, from the effect in one who was (unhappily) born and bred into the dominant class, and whose chief care and joy in life was in the pursuit of a culture which draws back instinctively from the violent and the terrible. I will go further. I will arraign my country and my day, because their iniquity would not let me follow out the laws of my nature, which were for luminosity and quiet, for the wide and genial view, but made me “take arms against a sea of troubles,” hoping only too often “by opposing to end them.” No, we make no apology for bloody sweat and for tears of fire wrung out of us in the Gethsemane and on the Calvary of our country: we make no apology to those whom we have the right to curse.
In the Second Part – “Here and There,” the record of a short trip in the East – the sight of the sin which England has committed not only against herself, against Ireland, against Scotland, but against India, against China, against the sweetest and gentlest people in the earth, the Japanese – the sight of this, and of the signs of England’s doom, the punishment for the abuse of the greatest trust any modern nation has had given to her, inspires a hatred which only that punishment can appease. In the Third Part – “Australia” – there is neither ferocity nor blood-thirstiness. Its key-note is hope, hope that dreads but does not despair.
I may add that in this edition I have sacrificed all merely personal aspects of the poems to attempt to give the book a more complete totality. We know well enough that allowance will rarely be made for any of these things: that our plea for comprehension will too often be an idle one. None the less we make it, for the sake of those who are willing to attempt to realize the social problem and to seek within themselves what they can do for its solution. We have no care whatever as to what view they take of it. Let them be with us or against us, it matters not, if only they will make this effort, if only they will ponder it in their hearts. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of us are concerned in this problem. We are all of us true sons of Labour who have suffered the robbery of the wages of Competition. One word more. The Australian is apt to deprecate the socialism of the European or the American. The darker aspects of the European or American civilization are not striking here. They are here; they are more than incipient, very much more; but they are not striking. Let such an one pause. “We speak of that which we do know,” and, for the rest, not only do we bid “him that has ears, to hear,” but “him that has eyes, to see.”
Brothers all over the earth, brothers and sisters, you of that silent company whose speech is only in the unknown deeds of love, the unknown devotions, the unknown heroisms, it is to you we speak! Our heart is against your heart; you can feel it beat. Soul speaks to soul through lips whose utterance is a need. In your room alone, in your lonely walks, in the still hours of day and night, we will be with you. We will speak with you, we will plead with you, for these piteous ones. In the evening trees you shall hear the sound of our weeping. Our sobs shall shake in the wind of wintry nights. We are the spirit of those piteous ones, the wronged, the oppressed, the robbed, the murdered, and we bid you open your warm heart, your light-lit soul to us! We will thrill you with the clarion of hate and defiance and despair in the tempest of land and sea. You shall listen to us there also. We will touch your eyes and lips with fire. No, we will never let you go, till you are ours and theirs! And you too, O sufferers, you too shall stay with us, and shall have comfort. Look, we have suffered, we have agonized, we have longed to hasten the hour of rest. But beyond the darkness there is light, beyond the turbulence peace. “Courage, and be true to one another.” “We bid you hope!”
THIS BOOK
I give this Bookto you, —Man or woman, girl or boy, labourer, mechanic, clerk, house-servant, whoever you may be, whose wages are not the worth of your work, —no, nor a fraction of it – whose wages are the minimum which you and those like you, pressed by the desire for life in the dreadful struggle of “Competition,” will consent to take from your Employers who, thanks to it, are able thus to rob you: —
I give it to you,in the hope that you may see how you are being robbed,– how Capital that is won by paying you your competition wages is plunder,– how Rent that is won by the increased value of land that is owing to the industry of us all, is plunder,– how the Capitalist and Landowner who over-ride you, how the Master or Mistress who work you from morning to night, who domineer over you as servants and despise you (or what is worse, pity you) as beggars, are the men and women whose sole title to this is, that they have the audacity and skill to plunder you, and you the simplicity and folly not to see it and to submit to it: —
I give this Book to you,in the hope that you may at last realize this, and in your own fashion never cease the effort to make your fellow-sufferers realize it: —
I give it to you,in the hope that you may formally enrol yourself in the ranks of the Army of the Night, and that you will offer up the best that has been granted you of heart and soul and mind towards the working out of that better time when, in victorious peace, we silence our drums and trumpets, furl our banners, drag our cannons to their place of rest, and solemnly disarming ourselves, become citizens once more or, if soldiers, then soldiers of the Army of the Day!
SONGS OF THE ARMY OF THE NIGHT
“Blessed are the poor in spirit.. blessed are the mourners.. Ye are the salt of the earth.” —
The Good tidings as given by Matthew.PROEM“OUTSIDE LONDON.”In the black night, along the mud-deep roads, Amid the threatening boughs and ghastly streams,Hark! sounds that gird the darknesses like goads, Murmurs and rumours and reverberant dreams,Tramplings, breaths, movements, and a little light. —The marching of the Army of the Night!The stricken men, the mad brute-beasts are keeping No more their places in the ditches or holes,But rise and join us, and the women, weeping Beside the roadways, rise like demon-souls.Fill up the ranks! What shimmers there so bright?The bayonets of the Army of the Night!Fill up the ranks! We march in steadfast column, In wavering lines yet forming more and more;Men, women, children, sombre, silent, solemn, Rank follows rank like billows to the shore.Dawnwards we tramp, towards the day and light.On, on and up, the Army of the Night!I
“ENGLAND.”
IN THE CAMPThis is a leader’s tent. “Who gathers here?” Enter and see and listen. On the groundMen sit or stand, enter or disappear, Dark faces and deep voices all around.One answers you. “You ask who gathers here? Companions! Generals we have none, nor chief.What need is there? The plan is all so clear — The future’s hope, the present’s grim relief!“Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first. The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!The hatred of the robber rich accursed Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.“Beyond the present’s faith, the future’s hope Points to the dawning hour when all shall beBut one. The man condemned shall fit the rope Around the hangman’s neck, and both be free!“The sun then rises on a happier land Where Wealth and Labour sound but as one word.We drill, we train, we arm our leaguered band. What is there more to tell you have not heard?” Resolute, stern, menacing. On the groundThey sit or stand, enter or disappear, Dark faces and deep voices all around.“AXIOM.”Let him who toils, enjoy Fruit of his toiling.Let him whom sweats annoy, No more be spoiling.For we would have it be That, weak or stronger,Not he who works, but he Who works not, hunger!DRILLWhen day’s hard task’s done, Eve’s scant meal partaken,Out we steal each one, Weariless, unshaken.In small reeking squares, Garbaged plots, we gather,Little knots and pairs, Brother, sister, father.Then the word is given. In their silent placesUnder lowering heaven, Range our stern-set faces.Now we march and wheel In our clumsy line,Shouldering sticks for steel, Thoughts like bitter brine!Drill, drill, drill, and drill! It is only thusConquer yet we will Those who’ve conquered us.Patience, sisters, mothers! We must not forgetDear dead fathers, brothers; They must teach us yet.In that hour we see, The hour of our desire,What shall their slayers be? As the stubble to the fire!EVENING HYMN IN THE HOVELS“We sow the fertile seed and then we reap it; We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread.Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it, While we hunger outside with hearts like lead.Hallelujah!“We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city. Others inhabit there in pleasant ease.We have no thing to ask of them save pity, No answer they to give but what they please.Hallelujah!“Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers, That we must toil and never know the light?Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers, That they must grind us dead here in the night?Hallelujah! Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also The happiness that we have given partake?Hallelujah!”IN THE STREETLORD – You have done well, we say it. You are dead, And, of the man that with the right hand takesLess than the left hand gives, let it be said He has done something for our wretched sakes.For those to whom you gave their daily bread Rancid with God-loathed “charity,” their drinkPutrid with man-loathed “sin,” we bow our head Grateful, as the great hearse goes by, and think.Yes, you have fed the flesh and starved the soul Of thousands of us; you have taught too wellThe rich are little gods beyond control, Save of your big God of the heaven and hell.We thank you. This was pretty once, and right.Now it wears rather thin. My lord, good night!“LIBERTY!”“Liberty!” Is that the cry, then? We have heard it oft of yore.Once it had, we think, a meaning; Let us hear it now no more.We have read what history tells us Of its heroes, martyrs too.Doubtless they were very splendid, But they’re not for me and you.There were Greeks who fought and perished, Won from Persians deathless graves.Had we lived then, we’re aware that We’d have been those same Greeks’ slaves!Then a Roman came who loved us; Cæsar gave men tongues and swords.Crying “Liberty,” they fought him, Cato and his cut-throat lords.When he’d give a broader franchise, Lift the mangled nations bowed,Crying “Liberty!” they killed him, Brutus and his pandar crowd.We have read what history tells us, O the truthful memory clings!Tacitus, the chartered liar, Gloating over poisoned kings!“Liberty!” The stale cry echoes Past snug homesteads, tinsel thrones,Over smoking fields and hovels, Murdered peasants’ bleaching bones.That’s the cry that mocked us madly, Toiling in our living graves,When hell-mines sent up the chorus: “Britons never shall be slaves!”“Liberty!” We care not for it! What we care for’s food, clothes, homes,For our dear ones toiling, waiting For the time that never comes!IN THE EDGWARE ROAD(To LORD L-.)Will you not buy? She asks you, my lord, you Who know the points desirable in such.She does not say that she is perfect. True, She’s not too pleasant to the sight or touch.But then – neither are you!Her cheeks are rather fallen in; a mist Glazes her eyes, for all their hungry glare.Her lips do not breathe balmy when they’re kissed. And yet she’s not more loathsome than, I swear,Your grandmother at whist.My lord, she will admit, and need not frame Excuses for herself, that she’s not chaste.First a young lover had her; then she came From one man’s to another’s arms, with haste.Your mother did the same.Moreover, since she’s married, once or twice She’s sold herself for certain things at night,To sell one’s body for the highest price Of social ease and power, all girls think right.Your sister did it thrice.What, you’ll not buy? You’ll curse at her instead? — Her children are alone, at home, quite near.These winter streets, so gay at nights, ’tis said, Have ’ticed the wanton out. She could not hearHer children cry for bread!TO THE GIRLS OF THE UNIONSGirls, we love you, and love Asks you to give againThat which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain. Give us weariless faithIn our Cause pure, passionate,Dearer than life and death, Dear as the love that’s it!Give to the man who turns Traitrous hands or forlornBack from the plough that burns, Give him pitiless scorn!Let him know that no wife Would bear him a fearless childTo hate and loathe the life Of a leprous father defiled.Girls, we love you, and love Asks you to give againThat which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain!HAGARShe went along the road, Her baby in her arms. The night and its alarmsMade deadlier her load.Her shrunken breasts were dry; She felt the hunger bite. She lay down in the night,She and the child, to die.But it would wail, and wail, And wail. She crept away. She had no word to say,Yet still she heard the wail.She took a jaggèd stone; She wished it to be dead. She beat it on the head;It only gave one moan.She has no word to say; She sits there in the night. The east sky glints with light,And it is Christmas Day!“WHY!”“Why is it we toil so? Where go all the gains?What do we produce for it, All our pangs and pains?”Why it is we toil so, Is it because, like sheep,Since our fathers sought the shears, We the same course keep.Where go all the gains? Well, It must be confessed,First the landlords take the rent, And the masters take the rest.What do we produce for it? Gentlemen! – and thenImitation snobs who’d be Like the gentlemen!“What, is it for such as these That we suffer thus?Fuddle-brained and vicious fools, Vermin venomous?“What, is that why on the top Creeps that Royal Louse,The prince of pheasants and cigars, Of ballet-girls and grouse?”Yes, that’s why, my Christian friends, They slave and slaughter us.England is made a dunghill that Some bugs may breed and buzz.A VISITOR IN THE CAMP To Mary Robinson. 1 “What, are you lost, my pretty little lady? This is no place for such sweet things as you.Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken, And, you’ll observe, our lives are rank lives too.”“Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I’ve come here (And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand),To see you, and to sing of all you suffer To the great world, and make it understand!”“Well, say! If one of those who’d robbed you thousands, Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter whereYou lay and rotted, would you call her angel, For all her charming smile and dainty air?”“Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I’ve come here With heart indignant, pity like a flame,To try and help you!” – “Pretty little lady, It will be best you go back whence you came.”“‘Enthusiasms’ we have such little time for! In our rude camp we drill the whole day long.When we return from out the serried battle, Come, and we’ll listen to your pretty song!”“LORD LEITRIM.”My Lord, at last you have it! Now we knowTruth’s not a phrase, justice an idle show.Your life ran red with murder, green with lust.Blood has washed blood clean, and, in the final dustYour carrion will be purified. Yet, see,Though your body perish, for your soul shall beAn immortality of infamy!“ANARCHISM.”’Tis not when I am here, In these homeless homes,Where sin and shame and disease And foul death comes;’Tis not when heart and brain Would be still and forgetMen and women and children Dragged down to the pit:But when I hear them declaiming Of “liberty,” “order,” and “law,”The husk-hearted gentleman And the mud-hearted bourgeois,That a sombre hateful desire Burns up slow in my breastTo wreck the great guilty temple, And give us rest!BELGRAVIA BY NIGHT“Move On!”“The foxes have holes,And the birds of the air have nests,But where shall the heads of the sons of menBe laid, be laid?”“Where the cold corpse rests,Where the sightless molesBurrow and yet cannot make it afraid,Rout but cannot wake it again,There shall the heads of the sons of menBe laid, laid!”JESUSWhere is poor Jesus gone? He sits with Dives now,And not even the crumbs are flung To Lazarus below.Where is poor Jesus gone? Is he with Magdalen?He doles her one by one Her wages of shame!Where is poor Jesus gone? The good Samaritan,What does he there alone? He stabs the wounded man!Where is poor Jesus gone, The lamb they sacrificed?They’ve made God of his carrion And labelled it “Christ!”PARALLELS FOR THE PIOUS“He holds a pistol to my head,Swearing that he will shoot me dead,If he have not my purse instead, The robber!”“He, with the lash of wealth and power,Flogs out my heart and flings the dower,The plundered pittance of his hour, The robber!”“He shakes his serpent tongue that lies,Wins trust for poisoned sophistriesAnd stabs me in the dark, and flies, The assassin!”“He pits me in the dreadful fightAgainst my fellow. Then he quiteStrips both his victims in the night, The assassin!”“PRAYER.”This is what I prayIn this horrible day,In this terrible night,God will give me light.Such as I have had,That I go not mad.This is what I seek,God will keep me meekTill mine eyes behold,Till my lips have toldAll this hellish crime. —Then it’s sleeping time!TO THE CHRISTIANSTake, then, your paltry Christ, Your gentleman God.We want the carpenter’s son, With his saw and hod.We want the man who loved The poor and oppressed,Who hated the rich man and king And the scribe and the priest.We want the Galilean Who knew cross and rod.It’s your “good taste” that prefers A bastard God!“DEFEAT?”Who is it speaks of defeat? — I tell you a Cause like oursIs greater than defeat can know; It is the power of powers!As surely as the earth rolls round, As surely as the glorious sunBrings the great world sea-wave, Must our Cause be won!What is defeat to us? — Learn what a skirmish tells,While the great Army marches on To storm earth’s hells!TO JOHN RUSKIN(After reading his “Modern Painters.”)Yes, you do well to mock us, you Who knew our bitter woe —To jeer the false, deny the true In us blind struggling low,While, on your pleasant place aloft With flowers and clouds and streams,At our black sweat and toil you scoffed That marred your idle dreams.“Oh, freedom, what was that to us,”(You’d shout down to us there),“Except the freedom foul, vicious, From all of good and fair?“Obedience, faith, humility, To us were empty names.” —The like to you (might we reply) Whose noisy life proclaimsPresumption, want of human love, Impatience, filthy breath, 2The snob in soul who looks above, Trampling on what’s beneath.When did you strive, in nobler part, With love and gentleness,To help one soul, to win one heart To joy and hope and peace?Go to, vain prophet, without faith In God who maketh new,With hankerings for this putrid death, This Flesh-feast of the Few,This Social Structure of red mud, This Edifice of slime,Whose bricks are bones, whose mortar’s blood, Whose pinnacle is Crime! —Go to, for we who strain our power For light and warmth and scope,For wives’, for children’s happier hour, Can teach you faith and hope.Hark to the shout of those who cleared The Missionary Ridge!Look on those dead who never feared The battle’s bloody bridge!Watch the stern swarm at that last breach March up that came not thence —And learn Democracy can teach Divine obedience. 3Pass through that South at last brought low Where loyal freemen live,And learn Democracy knows how To utterly forgive.Come then, and take this free-given bread Of us who’ve scarce enough;Hush your proud lips, bow down your head And worship human love!TO THE EMPEROR WILLIAMYou are at least a man, of men a king. You have a heart, and with that heart you love. The race you come from is not gendered ofThe filthy sty whose latest litter clingRound England’s flesh-pots, gorged and gluttoning. No, but on flaming battle-fields, in courts Of honour and of danger old resorts,The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring.O Father William, you, not falsely weak, Who never spared the rod to spoil the child,Our mighty Germany, we only speak To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild,Ere that near heaven your weary footsteps seek Where love with liberty is reconciled.SONG OF THE DISPOSSESSED“to jesus.”“Be with us by day, by night, O lover, O friend;Hold before us thy light Unto the end!“See, all these children of ours Starved and ill-clad.Speak to thy heart’s lily-flowers, And make them glad!“Our wives and daughters are here, Knowing wrong and shame’s touchBid them be of good cheer Who have lovèd much.“And we, we are robbed and oppressed, Even as thine were.Tell us of comfort and rest, Banish despair!“Be with us by day, by night, O lover, O friend;Hold before us thy light Unto the end!”ARTYes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve —If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth.Pluck out the flower, however fair, Whose beauty cannot bloom,(However sweet it be, or rare) Save from a noisome tomb.These social manners, charm and ease, Are hideous to who knowsThe degradation, the disease From which their beauty flows.So, Poet, must thy singing be; O Painter, so thy scene;Musician, so thy melody, While misery is queen.Nay, brothers, sing us battle-songs With clear and ringing rhyme;Nay, show the world its hateful wrongs, And bring the better time! THE PEASANTS’ REVOLT. 4 Thro’ the mists of years, Thro’ the lies of men,Your bloody sweat and tears,Your desperate hopes and fears Reach us once again.Brothers, who long ago, For life’s bitter sakeToiled and suffered so,Robbery, insult, blow, Rope and sword and stake:Toiled and suffered, till It burst, the brightening hope,“Might and right” and “will and skill,”That scorned, and does, and will, Sword and stake and rope!Wat and Jack and John, Tyler, Straw, and Ball,Souls that faltered not,Hearts like white iron hot, Still we hear your call!Yes, your “bell is rung,” Yes, for “now is time!”Come hither, every one,Brave ghosts whose day’s not done, Avengers of old rime, —Come and lead the way, Hushed, implacable,Suffering no delay,Forgetting not that day Dreadful, hateful, fell,When the liar king, The liar gentlemen,Wrought that foulest thing,Robbing, murdering Men who’d trusted them! 5Come and lead the way, Hushed, implacable.What shall stop us, say,On that day, our day? — Not unloosened hell!“ANALOGY.”(To D- L-.)Had you lived when a tyrant king Strove to make all the slaves of one,With nobles and with churchmen youHad stood unflinching, pure and true,To annihilate that hateful thing Green Runnymeade beat out of John?Had you lived when a wanton crew, Flash scoundrels of a day outdone,Trod down the toilers birth derides,With Cromwell and his IronsidesThe brave days had discovered you, Where Naseby saw the gallants run?And yet you, – this same knight in list For freedom in her narrow dawnAgainst that one, against those few,Vile king, vile nobles – you, yet youStand by the bloody Capitalist, Fight with the pandar Gentleman!IN TRAFALGAR SQUAREThe stars shone faint through the smoky blue; The church-bells were ringing;Three girls, arms laced, were passing through, Tramping and singing.Their heads were bare; their short skirts swung As they went along;Their scarf-covered breasts heaved up, as they sung Their defiant song.It was not too clean, their feminine lay, But it thrilled me quiteWith its challenge to task-master villainous day And infamous night,With its threat to the robber rich, the proud, The respectable free.And I laughed and shouted to them aloud, And they shouted to me!“Girls, that’s the shout, the shout we shall utter When with rifles and spades,We stand, with the old Red Flag aflutter, On the barricades!”A STREET FIGHT (To Mr F-.) 6 Sir, we approve your curling lip and nose At this vile sight.These men, these women are brute beasts? – Who knows, Sir, but that you are right?Panders and harlots, rogues and thieves and worse, We are a crewWhose pitiful plunder’s honoured in the purse Of gentlemen like you.Whom holy Competition’s taught (like us) “What’s thine is mine!” —How we must love you who have made us thus, You may perhaps divine!IN AN EAST END HOVELTO A WORKMAN, A WOULD-BE SUICIDEMan of despair and death,Bought and slaved in the gangs,Starved and stripped and leftTo the pitiful pitiless night,Away with your selfish thoughts!Touch not your ignorant life!Are there no masters of slaves,Jeering, cynical, strong —Are there no brigands (say),With the words of Christ on their lipsAnd the daggers under their cloaks —Is there not one of theseThat you can steal on and kill?O as the Swiss mountaineerDogged on the perilous heightsHis disciplined conqueror foes: 7Caught up one in his armsAnd, laughing exultantly,Plunged with him to the abyss:So let it be with you!An eye for an eye, and a toothFor a tooth, and a life for a life!Tell it, this hateful strongContemptuous hypocrite world,Tell it that, if we must liveAs dogs and as worse than dogs,At least we can die like men!Tell it there is a woeNot for the conquered alone! 8An eye for an eye, and a toothFor a tooth, and a life for a life!DUBLIN AT DAWNIn the chill grey summer dawn-light We pass through the empty streets;The rattling wheels are all silent; No friend his fellow greets.Here and there, at the corners, A man in a great-coat stands;A bayonet hangs by his side, and A rifle is in his hands.This is a conquered city; It speaks of war not peace;And that’s one of the English soldiers The English call “police.”You see, at the present moment That noble country of mineIs boiling with indignation At the memory of a “crime.”In a path in the Phœnix Park where The children romped and ran,An Irish ruffian met his doom, And an English gentleman.For a hundred and over a hundred Years on the country sideMen and women and children Have slaved and starved and died,That those who slaved and starved them Might spend their earnings then,And the Irish ruffians have a “good time,” And the English gentlemen.And that’s why at the present moment That noble country of mineIs boiling with indignation At the memory of a “crime.”For the Irish ruffians (they tell me), And it looks as if ’twere true,And the English gentlemen are so scarce, We could not spare those two!In the chill grey summer dawn-light We pass through the empty streets;The rattling wheels are all silent; No friend his fellow greets.Here and there, at the corners, A man in a great-coat stands;A bayonet hangs by his side, and A rifle is in his hands.This is a conquered city; It speaks of war not peace;And that’s one of the English soldiers The English call “police.”THE CAGED EAGLE.. I went the other dayTo see the birds and beasts they keep enmewed