Ye kings, upon your gilded thrones,
Hear ye not how the death-wind moans?
Can ye not see that naught
For what your hands have done?
Hark! how a stricken people's groans
Mount up against the sun!
The innocent, they starve and bleed;
And do ye list, and do ye heed,
Wrapt in your dreams of power and greed,
The hastening end of all?
Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns, read
The writing on the wall!