  See them mount in the dead of night— Men, three hundred strong! Armed and silent, masked from the light, Speeding swartly along. What is their errand? manly fight? Clench with a manly foe? I would rather be dead of wrong Than ride among them so. See them enter the sleeping town. Hear the warning shot! Keep to your beds, free men—down, down! Dare you to move?—dare not! Black Anarchy their king— I would rather my hand should rot Than have it do this thing. See them steal to the house they seek— Brave men, O, brave all! There lies a sick boy, fever-weak; Who comes forth at call? A woman? "Go in, you bitch!" they reek. "Give us the old man out!" Rather my bitten tongue should fall To palsy than so shout. And—they have him, "the old man," now, Bound—with nine beside. One, a Judge of the Law's grave brow, Sworn by it to bide. "Lash him!"—a hundred lashes plow A free-born back with pain! And burn and beat and stain? O the shame, and the bitter shame, That thus, across our land, Crime can arise and write her name Broad, with a bloody hand! O the shame, and the bitter shame Upon our chivalry. I would rather have led the band That diced on Calvary. So, Night-errants, ride on and ride— Avenging, wrongly, wrong. But when the children at your side Grow lawless up and strong; When at their drunken hands you've died As beasts beside your door, You will repent, God knows it—long, These nights to Hell made o'er. |
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