Oh, English women! see, our country's dying;
Her life-blood from her gaping wounds is sighing,
Her bitter wrongs to God for vengeance crying!
The Iron hand has struck, but in the smiting
Its own dishonour on the wall is writing,
And Belgium's funeral pyre the world is lighting.
If we had failed or shrunk before the paying,
If we had saved our dearest from the slaying,
What price had you not paid for the delaying?
Oh, mothers! who your man-grown sons are keeping,
Oh, fathers! to the patriot's duty, sleeping,
Oh, lovers! at the thought of parting, weeping,
Awake, and give us Men to do our Reaping!
MARY BOOTH.
