Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/560

 But he over-reached him, as fate befell, And I alone am left to tell, Death's horrors I lived through

The master dreamed, mayhap, of his gold, But we were awake—awake, Buried alive in the black earth's mold; And some who yet could a pencil hold, Wrote till their hands in death grew cold, For wife or sweetheart's sake.

Letters they wrote of farewell—farewell, To mother, sweetheart, wife: What words of comfort could they tell— Comfort for those who loved them well, Up from the jaws of the earth's black hell That was crushing out their life.

The master cursed, as masters do— Good right had he, good right! But the fear of our vengeance stirred him, too; He sailed, with some of his pirate crew, To Europe, and reveled a year or two; Great might has he—great might!