’My back is to the wall;
      Lo! here I stand. 
    O Lord, whate’er befall,
      I love this land!

    ’This land that I have tilled,
      This land is mine;
    Would, Lord, that Thou hadst willed,
      This heart were Thine!

    ’This land to us Thou gave
      In days of old;
    They seek to make a grave
      Or field of gold!

    ’To us, O Lord, Thy hand,
      Put forth to save! 
    Give us, O Lord, this land
      Or give a grave!’

‘A New Song for the Boers’ says:—­

    ’Hark! to the curses ringing
      From all smitten lands;
    In sob and wail, they tell the tale
      Of England’s blood-red hands.

    ’And wheresoe’er her standard flings
      Forth its folds of shame,
    A people’s cries to heaven arise
      For vengeance on her name!’

But for passionate expression, one cannot, as I have already said, look to the comparatively new and artificial English ballad form; one must go to the Irish, with its long tradition.  Here is a poem, ’The Curse of the Boers on England,’ which I have translated literally from the Irish:—­

    ’O God, we call to Thee,
      This hour and this day,
    Look down on this England
      That has come down in our midst.

    ’O God, we call to Thee,
      This day and this hour,
    Look down on England,
      And her cold, cold heart.

    ’It is she was a Queen,
      A Queen without sorrow;
    But we will take from her,
      Quietly, her Crown.

    ’That Queen that was beautiful
      Will be tormented and darkened,
    For she will get her reward
      In that day, and her wage.

    ’Her wage for the blood
      She poured out on the streams;
    Blood of the white man,
      Blood of the black man.

    ’Her wage for those hearts
      That she broke in the end;
    Hearts of the white man,
      Hearts of the black man.

    ’Her wage for the bones
      That are whitening to-day;
    Bones of the white man,
      Bones of the black man.

    ’Her wage for the hunger
      That she put on foot;
    Her wage for the fever,
      That is an old tale with her.

    ’Her wage for the white villages
      She has left without men;
    Her wage for the brave men
      She has put to the sword.

    ’Her wage for the orphans
      She has left under pain;
    Her wage for the exiles
      She has spent with wandering.

    ’For the people of India
      (Pitiful is their case);
    For the people of Africa
      She has put to death.

    ’For the people of Ireland,
      Nailed to the cross;
    Wage for each people
      Her hand has destroyed.

    ’Her wage for the thousands
      She deceived and she broke;
    Her wage for the thousands
      Finding death at this hour.