Pity the slain that laid away their lives...

Pity the slain that laid away their lives,

Pity the prisoners mangled with gyves,

Thin little children and widowed wives,

And the broken soldier who survives.

Pity the woman whose body was sold

For a little bread or a little gold,

And a little fire to keep out the cold,

So tired, and fearful of growing old.

Pity the people in the grey street

Before the dawn trooping with listless feet

Down to their work in the dust and the heat,

For a little bread and a little meat.

Pity the criminal sentenced to die,

Loving life so, with the world in his eye,

In his ears and his heart, with the passionate cry

Of love that will call when he may not reply.

Pity them all, the imperative faces

That peer through the dark where we sleep in our laces,

Where we skulk among cushions in opulent places,

With indolent postures and frivolous graces.

Eyes that prick the darkness, fingers thin

Tearing at hypocrisy, and Sin

That batters the door and staggers in....

The streets surround with clamour and din,

Drowning our flutes, till the cries of the city

Flurry us, flutter us, force us to pity,

Force us to sigh and arrange a committee,

Tea-party charity danced to a ditty....

The scarlet ribbons flutter and wave,

A rebel flag on a rebel grave,

But to us the strong alone are brave,

And only the rich are worthy to save!

Yet who shall blame us, plaited and curled,

Where silk banners fly and the red flags are furled,

Flags that blow where the dead are hurled,

Tattered and dripping with blood of the world!