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Who in the humble dwellings of our hinds, Have seen a numerous and hardy race, Eating the bread of labour cheerfully, Dealt to them with no hard nor churlish hand. We, therefore, stand with graceful boldness forth, The advocates of those who wish for peace. Worn with our rude and long continued wars, Our native land now wears the alter'd face Of an uncultur'd wild. To her fair fields, With weeds and thriftless docks now shagged o’er, The aged grandsire, bent and past his toil, Who in the sunny nook had plac'd his seat And thought to toil no more, leads joyless forth His widow'd daughters and their orphan train, The master of a silent cheerless band. The half-grown stripling, urged before his time To manhood's labour, steps, with feeble limbs And sallow cheek, round his unroofed cot. The mother on her last remaining son With fearful bodings looks. The cheerful sound Of whistling ploughmen, and the reaper's song, And the flails lusty stroke is heard no more. The youth and manhood of our land are laid In the cold earth, and shall we think of war? O valiant Ethwald! listen to the calls Of gentle pity, in the brave most graceful, Nor, for the lust of move extended sway, Shed the last blood of Mercia. War is honourable In those who do their native rights maintain; In those whose swords an iron barrier are Between the lawless spoiler and the weak;