Under the shadow of peace thickly began to arise Many a home for the working poor, many a school and church, Little it may be, but better than roasting our enemies eyes With Captain Disney's patent, or sacking the town of Kertch. 22 Who clamours for war? Is it one who is ready to fight? Is it one who will grasp the sword, and rush on the foe with a shout? Far from it; 'tis one of a musing mind, who merely intends to write; He sits at home by his own snug hearth, and hears the storm howl without. 29 Who are the friends of the poor? The men who babble and prattle About the Balance of Power, and the pomp and grandeur of war? Thousands of miles away from the rush and the roar of battle, Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar? 37 Who are the friends of the poor! The writers without a name, Who scribble at so much a column, whatever the Editors please, Working the many-mouthed bellows which blew up the war to a flame, And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their clubs at their ease! 38 Methinks we have done enough for that turbaned goat, the Turk, Who spits when a Christian meets him, and would spit, if he dared, in his face; Methinks we have done enough, for 'tis but a thankless work To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous race. 41 Whether they wag a saucy tongue, or stealthily work with the pen, There is blood on the heads of those who are fanning the flames of war; Blood on their heads, and blood at their doors; the blood of our own brave men, The blood of the wretched serfs who fight for their Faith and their Czar. 46