We clasp all hands, to the farthest lands;
We swear by our mother soil,
To take the meed who have done the deed!
Hark to the tongues of toil!




=The Hangman=


The hangman's hands are dyed with blood,
And all they touch or hold
Is stained and streaked with clotted blood
E'en to his bloody gold--
The coins that are paid for human breath
And the lives which he has sold.

In scarlet hue stand old and new--
His clothes, his board, his bed.
There is blood in the cup he lifts up,
And crimson in his bread;
And e'en his floors and walls and doors
Are marked with gory red.

The hangman's face is dull and grey,
And soulless are his eyes;
That he may live from day to day,
Some fellow-being dies.
The tears of the young are naught to him,