They fall in the shelterless hollow ; 
They sleep in the cold and the sun ; 
They fight, and the Englishmen follow— 
The odds are as twenty to one ! 
Hide, hide thy bright eyes, O Apollo ! 
The murder is done.* 
 
The stones should arise to declare it, 
Their terror and tyrannous reign ! 
The earth be unable to bear it, 
Gape wide, for her motherly pain ! 
Shalt thou, O Columbia, share it, 
The shame and the stain ? 
 
Your stripes are the stripes of dishonour ; 
Your stars are cast down from the sky ; 
While earth has this burden upon her, 
Your eagle unwilling to fly ! 
Loose, loose the wide wings !  For your honour ! 
Let tyranny die ! 
 
Remember, this day of your glory, 
Your fight for the freedom you own. 
Those years—is their memory hoary ? 
Your chains—is their memory flown ? 
 
* At the hour of passing the proof-sheets, however, the Boers are not yet 
conquered—nor likely to be ! 
 
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