From Australia: OH, tell me, God of Battles! Oh, say what is to come! The King is in his trenches, the millionaire at home; The Kaiser with his toiling troops, the Czar is at the front. Oh! Tell me, God of Battles! Who bears the battle's brunt? The Queen knits socks for soldiers, the Empress does the same, And know no more than peasant girls which nation is to blame. The wounded live to fight again, or live to slave for bread; The Slain have graves above the Slain--the Dead are with the Dead. The widowed young shall wed or not, the widowed old remain-- And all the nations of the world prepare for war again! But ere that time shall be, O God, say what shall here befall! Ten millions at the battle fronts, and we're five millions all! The world You made was wide, O God, the world we made is small. We toiled not as our fathers toiled, for Sport was all our boast; And so we built our cities, Lord, like warts, upon the coast.
From Europe: The seer stood on the mountain side, the witch was in her cave; The gipsy with his caravan, the sailor on the wave; The sophist in his easy chair, with ne'er a soul to save, The factory slaves went forth to slave, the peasant to the field; The women worked in winter there for one-tenth of the yield; The village Granny nursed their babes to give them time to slave; The child was in the cradle, and the grandsire in his grave. The rich man slumbered in his chair, full fed with wine and meat; The lady in her carriage sat, the harlot walked the street With paint upon her cheek and neck, through winter's snow and sleet. We saw the pride of Wealth go mad, and Misery increase-- And still the God of Gods was dumb and all the world was Peace!
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
