"A dirty work," said Dyer, rebuked for spilling

Hundreds of lives to irrigate new lands.

A dirty work, but not for British hands,

Dabbling in blood to earn each day their shilling.

Hark! Mohawk Valley and Wyoming, chilling

With thought of Tarleton's King-serving bands,

And Canada red-clayed, though high snow stands,

Cry: Work for which the British are too willing!

Invaded lands need terror irrigation

To make them fruitful. Better flood the field,

Then let the native bloom become the yield;

And, so, this Dyer submerged a small whole nation

With crimson death, that England might, deep-keeled,

Have for display, new seas of desolation.