To All Whom It May Concern
Surely, beyond the nethermost pit of hell
Some darker, deeper halls of doom await
The rogues, who did for gain this deed of hate!
The slaves to Mammon’s lust who dared to sell
Death to the crews they catered for—so well!
—So smilingly! then sent them to their fate
Poisoned by garbage, while their horses ate
Mildew for hay, and sickened, starved, and fell
Oh, England! has the madness of the mart
So demonised thy merchants? can our land
Nurse such dark traitors, rear such serpent
As stings unseen, numbs brotherhood at the heart,
Slays honour, and unnerves the soldier’s hand
By sense of treacherous vile ingratitude?
(Ballads of the War, p. 27)