NIGHT-RIDERS

See them mount in the dead of night —

Men, three hundred strong!

Armed and silent, masked from the light,

Speeding swartly along.

What is their errand? manly fight?

Clench with a manly foe?

I would rather be dead of wrong

Than ride among them so.

See them enter the sleeping town.

Hear the warning shot!

Keep to your beds, free men — down, down!

Dare you to move?— dare not!

These are your masters — these who crown

Black Anarchy their king —

I would rather my hand should rot

Than have it do this thing.

See them steal to the house they seek —

Brave men, O, brave all!

There lies a sick boy, fever-weak;

Who comes forth at call?

A woman? “Go in, you bitch!” they reek.

“Give us the old man out!”

Rather my bitten tongue should fall

To palsy than so shout.

And — they have him, “the old man,” now,

Bound — with nine beside.

One, a Judge of the Law's grave brow,

Sworn by it to bide.

“Lash him!” — a hundred lashes plow

A free-born back with pain!

God, shall we let such cowards ride

And burn and beat and stain?

O the shame, and the bitter shame,

That thus, across our land,

Crime can arise and write her name

Broad, with a bloody hand!

O the shame, and the bitter shame

Upon our chivalry.

I would rather have led the band

That diced on Calvary.

So, Night-errants, ride on and ride —

Avenging, wrongly, wrong.

But when the children at your side

Grow lawless up and strong;

When at their drunken hands you've died

As beasts beside your door,

You will repent, God knows it — long,

These nights to Hell made o'er.