Hearken to the notes of love
Notes, with protests from above;
Who can grace his mailed glove
Wit, “good to men?”
We shall ne’er forget the crowd
Who this day are dressed in shroud.
What you are, sir, speaks so loud,
Your name’s a token!

Pfui! you fear not God nor man,
“Scraps-of-paper” laws you ban,
Conduct yours so hooligan
As there were no chains.
Lost ideals stain your soul,
Gloom of days shall o’er you roll,
“Hymns of Hate” fill up your scroll,
Records of your gains.

Public weal should have come first,
But your deeds have been accurst
With that spirit of mistrust,
Known as camouflage.
Reign not, O thou hypocrite!
Lest the world bleed at the sight
Of arms that say – might is right
Through your entourage.

Hush! We cannot hear you speak,
Ears are dull to suit so weak;
Who can listen while you seek
Only self to please?
When you cheer up them who mourn,
Righting wrongs long held in scorn,
Then with pleas for peace upborne,
Come on bended knees.

J. Townsley, Cullybackey December 1917

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