Pro Patria Cuncta et Facere et Ferre Parati

HOLY CHRIST ! we take Thy name But to cover deeds of shame. Worse than heathens now are they Who weary Thee with sham and say. See them sighing for " sail soul-beauty," Lost to every vulgar duty ; No spark of manliness and pluck, Aye grinding at " piety," " peace," and muck '. But men who can't their " brother " love, How can they cleave to God above ? Folk that can worship nought but greed, And fail their country in her need, One day outside the gates will stand Of His Jerusalem the Grand. " Saints " that have nor curse nor ban, No rifle, lance, or yataghan, No extra tax and free-will shilling When nineteenth-century kings are killing A million children, women, men, While towns become the ashy den Where charr'd, maim'd corpses lie and rot — Such hallows surely have forgot That e'en the most devout ascetic, Pictures and prayers howe'er pathetic, Nay the most " unctuous " devotion With every kind of begging notion, Matyrdom, Mariolatry — Are nothing — without Charity ! See Churches Sacred, Apostolical, Churches Roman, Orthodoxical, Churches Protestant, Paradoxical; Churches Lutheran, Calvinistic, Churches Irvingite or Mystic ; Sects and splits of every hue, Bishops, Clergy, all the crew, Creed on creed upbuilding fast, New dogmas adding to the last ; Spinning webs, wire-drawn and fine, Theories subtle, " most divine ;" Splitting hairs with polish'd knife, Else, absorb'd in scowl and strife, Red damnations dealing round Till the Shibboleth be found ; Drone or groan by organ nurst, Or — " the box of whistles " curst ; Naked walls and three-hours' prayer, Or fane rich with costly layer Of marbles, jewels, bronzes, gold, While breathe sweet voices anthems old Responses short or sermons long, Hearers select or crowded throng ; Altar-candles large and bright, Or " injunctions " 'gainst a light ; Gownless men and neck-tie throats, Or tippets, stoles, robes, petticoats, With beardless boys or bearded goats ; Gay procession, banner, cross, Or shunn'd all such as filth and dross ; Incense tickling delicate noses, Shrines and tinsel, pots and posies ; Saints'-days many, or saints all damn'd, The sheep with tracts and bibles cramm'd, Washings, bowings, genuflections, Spiritual guidings and " directions ;" Priestcraft endless night and day, Or tailors and girls that preach and pray ; Tithes of cummin, anise, mint, Forms and fetish without stint ; Pope Infallible — God wot ! — Or Pastor ridden by Deacon sot, Jesuit's craft or Jumper's sleight — And all to make one proselyte ! The while, unknown's Our Lord above, Lost the golden law of Love, Heathen virtues e'en are gone, Cant and crime in union ; Earthly wrong and earthly right, Unseen, unfelt, in phosphor-light Of " contemplation " and " perfection," Self-deceit and " sure election." Alack, how we and things do change ! Paul would be now a dreamer strange, Peter a heretic, Matthew a log, Christ a vulgar demagogue, Foul-mouth'd and fierce as any dog. We, with our steam and " education," And mandarin " examination," Our mealy phrase and flare and flaunt, Our millionaires and " paupers " gaunt, Our caste and " respectability," Tuft-hunting and universality Of adulteration, swindling, puff", With bribery and simony quantum svff. Why we would walk a mile or two To see a Queen's or Lord's cast shoe, And nor Priest nor Levite dare God's deep-branding truths declare — Should rich or titled rip be there. Rotten, brandy-drinking kings, They are now our highest things ! Swells now our veins no jolly blood ; Flows through them now a loathsome flood Of gin or beer or learned ink, Till our proud states are lost in stink ; And our official sleek belief Fits with the coward and the thief, Our varnish Christianity Masking life's " civiliz'd " blasphemy And hollow conventionality. Yes ! these Christians do love each other How they cheat, sell, stab their brother ! How the psalm-singing drivellers lie, Gloating in their butchery ! Scoundrel Bismarcks and their kings — While th' bought scribe their praises How they steal lands, lights and men, Adding serfs to slave-fill'd pen, Dancing in " loyal " extasy At each fresh stroke of perfidy, Swear now by 'The Holy Trinity,' ' To-morrow say 'twas flummery ; Waste paper each state-treaty new — A blind to catch the honest few. Who takes life, we hang ; but not If a bauble crown he's got. Then the wretch may at his will Kingdoms wide with slaughter fill, Massacre all Circassia, With patriots crowd Siberia, Make gallant Poland bleed to death, O'er France belch bullets and hell-fire breath, " Annex," intrigue, to right and left, More " pious " after every theft, Bishops and priests " Te Deum " singing, As each fresh victory-peal is ringing, Each burial-squad its heap is flinging Of boys, men, peasants, ten thousand strong, In grave-trench, wide, and deep and long, Bayoneted, brain'd, mow'd down or burn'd — For that the conqueror's yoke they spurn'd, Because (foul villains !) they dared to stand Fighting for their dear Fatherland ! Yes, Bill (still panting for fresh dominions) Bismarck (pluming his vulture pinions) Alec (with's sneaking gore-stain'd minions) Not yet — like mad wolves, each man's aim — 'Are shot, hang'd, headed, with wild acclaim By Europe's bold United States. " United," quotha, by the fates ! Ours are the Dis-united lands, No law, no clasp between the strands Of their old coil ; club-law alone Is now to reign in every zone, Each foot-pad now may run-a-muck, Now you, now I, now he is struck. " Let all be plunder'd in their turn. Ravish their women, their cities burn" So say wise " statesmen," men of peace, And London may "fry in its own grease" So say wise priestmen, men of peace, Lest "tithe and offering should cease;" So say wise penmen, men of peace, Lest "new mob-papers should increase ;" So say wise pursemen, men of peace, Lest war should " touch their golden fleece." The great, thus craven, helpless, lost, The small states hither, thither, tost, All palsied, fate-big moments flying, And freedom, Europe, Asia, dying — Some blanch and shake in panic fear, Dread some, lest " trade-stop " should be near, Some from their cow'd chain'd multitude Wring out more, more " iron and blude," While all are bankrupt, crush'd and ground By armaments of warlike sound, But which the Quakers will not use 'Gainst public murderers. Thus abuse Poltroons and traitors Europe's weal, While hell-hounds hunt, and tear and steal, All tilings to one wide ruin tending And none will see the woful ending. And we the eunuchs, we " mean whites," We the unwash'd mob that hunger bites, We the toiling, moiling thralls, For whose " blood " the anointed tyrant calls To feast his " iron," we who eat Our tear-soil'd bread beneath his feet, We, whose gold is drain' d away His " Christian " hordes to stall and pay, Our children nurs'd for cannon-food, Our pennies suck'd by th' dynast-brood, Our fair lands stolen, trampled down, To give a " King " an " Emperor's " crown — We suffer all. We cannot fight. Then farewell, England ! By heaven's light Coin-huggers never yet were free, Mammon aye lured to infamy. — Take muskets up, lay money down, Dare all for England's old renown. Let us be men ! let England's glory Flow lustrous yet in Europe's story ! Stand we by kinsmen and allies, Ere each one, single-handed, dies Ere 'tis too late, rise one and all, On Cromwell, Pitt, and Nelson call, Save France, save Europe, save thyself, Care not for pleasure or for pelf — No sacrifice too great can be For Fatherland and Liberty !