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!
These are your masters — these who crown 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! God, shall we let such cowards ride 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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