Lines To An Old Pro-Boer Who Asked For A Contribution To A Peace Periodical

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.

~G.K. Chesterton