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My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains: Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories and my own. And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothel's gasping on the shore, As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread.
For our little ones with their teeming hopes ye have roofed the sweatshop den, And our daughters fair ye have prisoned in the reeking brothel's pen! And so for the sign of our murdered hopes our blood-red banner see We come in the right of our new-born might to set the people free! Tremble, oh masters tremble all who live by others' toil We come your dungeon walls to raze, your citadel to spoil!
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