Stamps o'er the shuddering earth.
True to the earth, the bread-giving earth,
Happy and cheery in business and trade,
Peaceful we sat in the oak tree's shade,
Peaceful,
Though we were born to the sword.

Circled around us, for ever and ever,
Greed, sick with envy, and nets lifted high,
Full of inherited hatred.
Every one saw it, and every one felt
The secret venom, gushing forth,
Year after year,
Heavy and breath-bated years.
But hearts did not quiver
Nor hands draw the sword.

And then it came, the hour
Of sacred need, of pregnant Fate,
And what it brings forth, we will shape,
The brown gun in our mastering hand.

Ye mothers, what ye once have borne,
In honor or in vice,
Bring forth to every sacred shrine--
Your country's sacrifice.

Ye brides, whom future happiness,
Once kissed--it but seemed true,
Bring back to fair Germania