You cannot think my heart so tough
To shrieks that ring or shards that rend;
You cannot think me bad enough
Nor good enough for tortures, friend.
Nor do I lightly talk of tears
Through some vague pageant of the past;
The shriek of shafts, the shock of spears,
The bursting of the arbelast.
Do you recall in that base fight,
When men were crushed with clubs of gold,
The meek and murderous flag of white
Of which our English lies were told,
Till white had washed away the red
And a calmed country found release?
Look forth to-day, and count the dead
Under your leprous flag of peace.
Rather than peace's pearl to pray,
When cast before us by such swine,
I would again your friends and mine
Were riding to Pretoria.