Clear the battlefield and let me see All the profit from our victory. You talk of freedom, starving children poor. Are you deaf when you hear the season's call?
Were you there to watch the earth be scorched? Did you stand beside the spectral torch? Know the leaves of sorrow turned their face, Scattered on the ashes of disgrace.
Ev'ry blade is sharp; the arrows fly Where the victims of your armies lie, Where the blades of brass and arrows reign Then there will be very little sorrow, Very little pain.