"When the army has slain its fill, When they bid the hangman cease; They will beckon us down from the desert hill To go to our homes in peace.To plough with a heavy heart, And, of half our fields bereft, 'Gainst the usurer's oath, and the lawyer's art To battle that some be left.At the sight of an English face Loyally bow the head, And cringe like slaves to the surly race For pay and a morsel of bread;Toil like an ox or a mule To earn the stranger his fee — Our sons may brook the Feringhee's rule, There is no more life for me!"