ion birds, too gorged to fly! Ah! Brothers, what have you
done?

You prate of duty and honor, of a patriot's glorious death,
Of love of country, heroic deeds--nay, for shame's sake, spare your
breath!
Pray, what have you done for your country? Whose was the blood that was
shed
In the hellish warfare that served your ends? My boy was shot in your
stead.

And for what were our children butchered, men makers of cruel law?
By the Christ, I am glad no woman made the Christless code of war!
Shirks and schemers, why don't you answer? Is the foul truth hard to
tell?
Then a mother will tell it for you, of a deed that shames fiends in
hell:--
Our boys were killed that some faction or scoundrel might win mad race
For goals of stained gold, shamed honors, and the sly self-seeker's
place;
That money's hold on our country might be tightened and made more sure;
That the rich could inherit earth's fullness and their loot be quite
secure;
That the world-mart be wider opened to the product mulct from toil;
That the labor and land of our neighbors should become your war-won
spoil;
That the eyes of an outraged people might be turned from your graft and
greed
In the misruled, plundered home-land by lure of war's ghastly deed;
And that priests of the warring nations could pray to the selfsame God
For His blessing on battle and murder and corpse-strewn, blood-soaked
sod.
Oh, fools! if God were a woman, think you She would let kin slay
For gold-lust and craft of gamesters, or cripple that trade might pay?

This quarrel was not the fighters':--the cheated, red pawns in your
game:--
You stay-at-homes garnered the plunder, but the pawns,--wounds, death,
and "Fame"!
You paid them a beggarly pittance, your substitute prey-of-the-sword,
But, ye canny beasts of prey, they paid, in life and limb, for your
hoard.
And, behold! you have other victims: a widow sobs by my side,
Who clasps to her breast a girl-child. Men, she was my slain son's
bride!

I can smell the stench of the shambles, where the mangled bodies lie;
I can hear the moans of the wounded; I can see the brave lads die;
And across the heaped, red trenches and the tortured, bleeding rows
I cry out a mother's pity to all mothers of dear, dead "foes."
In love and a common sorrow, I weep with them o'er our dead,
And invoke my sister woman for a curse on each scheming head.

Nay, why should we mothers curs