I raised the hammer on high—in a trice the gore
Was flowing on Polish Ostrava's soil!
All ye that are in Silesia, all ye I say,
Whether Peter your name be or Paul,
The steel-wrought armour upon your breast ye must lay,
And thousands to battle must call.
All ye that are in Silesia, all ye I say,
Ye who over the depths your mastery wield,
From below come flame and smoke; and there comes a day,
There comes a day when a reckoning ye shall yield!
THOU AND I
Get thee hence from my way:
Black are my hands and damp is the raiment I wear,
I am but a miner and thou art my master to-day;
Thine is the palace, a hovel of wood is my lair,
My Phrygian cap o’er my forehead a shadow doth throw.
But not unto me do the pleading orphans lament,
They are robbed by thy ravening hares of the fruits of the soil,
