Songs of the Army of the Night.
31
We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!
"Liberty!" The stale cry echoes
Past smug homesteads, tinsel thrones,
Over smoking fields and hovels,
Murdered peasants' bleaching bones.
Past smug 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!"
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!
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 ———.)
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!
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.
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.
