Francis Adams - Songs of the Army of the Night

Then a Roman came who loved us;
Cæsar gave men tongues and swords.
Crying “Liberty,” they fought him,
Cato and his cut-throat lords.

When he’d give a broader franchise,
Lift the mangled nations bowed,
Crying “Liberty!” they killed him,
Brutus and his pandar crowd.

We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!

“Liberty!” The stale cry echoes
Past snug 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 !”

“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!

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!

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.

My lord, she will admit, and need not frame
Excuses for herself, that she’s not chaste.
First a young lover had her; then she came
From one man’s to another’s arms, with haste.
Your mother did the same.

Moreover, since she’s married, once or twice
She’s sold herself for certain things at night,
To sell one’s body for the highest price
Of social ease and power, all girls think right.
Your sister did it thrice.

What, you’ll not buy? You’ll curse at her instead? —
Her children are alone, at home, quite near.
These winter streets, so gay at nights, ’tis said,
Have ’ticed the wanton out. She could not hear
Her children cry for bread !

Girls, we love you, and love
Asks you to give again
That which draws it above,
Beautiful, without stain.

Give us weariless faith
In our Cause pure, passionate,
Dearer than life and death,
Dear as the love that’s it!

Give to the man who turns
Traitrous hands or forlorn
Back from the plough that burns,
Give him pitiless scorn!

Let him know that no wife
Would bear him a fearless child
To hate and loathe the life
Of a leprous father defiled.

Girls , we love you , and love
Asks you to give again
That which draws it above ,
Beautiful , without stain !

She went along the road,
Her baby in her arms.
The night and its alarms
Made deadlier her load.

Her shrunken breasts were dry;
She felt the hunger bite.
She lay down in the night,
She and the child, to die.

But it would wail, and wail,
And wail. She crept away.
She had no word to say,
Yet still she heard the wail.

She took a jaggèd stone;
She wished it to be dead.
She beat it on the head;
It only gave one moan.

She has no word to say;
She sits there in the night.
The east sky glints with light,
And it is Christmas Day!

“ Why is it we toil so ?
Where go all the gains ?
What do we produce for it ,
All our pangs and pains ?”

Why it is we toil so,
Is it because, like sheep,
Since our fathers sought the shears,
We the same course keep.

Where go all the gains? Well,
It must be confessed,
First the landlords take the rent,
And the masters take the rest.

What do we produce for it?
Gentlemen! – and then
Imitation snobs who’d be
Like the gentlemen!

“ What , is it for such as these
That we suffer thus ?
Fuddle-brained and vicious fools ,
Vermin venomous ?

“ What , is that why on the top
Creeps that Royal Louse ,
The prince of pheasants and cigars ,
Of ballet-girls and grouse ?”

Yes, that’s why, my Christian friends,
They slave and slaughter us.
England is made a dunghill that
Some bugs may breed and buzz.

“ What , are you lost , my pretty little lady ?
This is no place for such sweet things as you .
Our bodies , rank with sweat , will make you sicken ,
And , you’ll observe , our lives are rank lives too .”

“Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I’ve come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand),
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great world, and make it understand!”

“ Well , say ! If one of those who’d robbed you thousands ,
Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where
You lay and rotted , would you call her angel ,
For all her charming smile and dainty air ?”

“Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I’ve come here
With heart indignant, pity like a flame,
To try and help you!” – “ Pretty little lady ,
It will be best you go back whence you came .”

“‘ Enthusiasms ’ we have such little time for !
In our rude camp we drill the whole day long .
When we return from out the serried battle ,
Come , and we’ll listen to your pretty song !”

My Lord, at last you have it! Now we know
Truth’s not a phrase, justice an idle show.
Your life ran red with murder, green with lust.
Blood has washed blood clean, and, in the final dust
Your carrion will be purified. Yet, see,
Though your body perish, for your soul shall be
An immortality of infamy!