When you meet your enemies in the field, Go fight them bravely with no thought to yield, But boldly cry out at ev’ry breath, “Give us liberty, or give us death.” THE RECONCENTRADOS. A Spanish physician on his way from Cuba to Spain, on arriving at New York about October 1, 1898, was asked about the reconcentrados, and answered sarcastically, “There are no reconcentrados now.” This answer was understood to mean that they had all died of starvation excepting the few that were saved by the United States. Lives there a man in the United States, That knows of the Cubans’ horrible fates, Whose cheeks do not burn with the blush of shame, When he hears these reproachful words of blame-- “There are no reconcentrados now?” Where are the parents feeble, old and gray, Driven from their own quiet homes away? Where are the children, are they too all dead? Is it a fact, can it truly be said-- “There are no reconcentrados now?” Where are the mothers with babes at the breast? Where are the infants, are they too at rest? Where are the sick and all in need of care? Were they left to perish, they are not there? “There are no reconcentrados now.” Where are the crops of food once stored in domes, Around ten thousand humble Cuban homes? Devoured by fire and borne in flames away, No wonder then that men can truly say-- “There are no reconcentrados now.” Robbed of their cattle, crops and homes destroyed, Years of hard labor in hours rendered void, Huddled near cities, watched like beasts of prey, Deprived of food they all have passed away, “There are no reconcentrados now.” Shorn of liberty, bound in lines of death, They know their fate and dread the buzzard’s breath; They pray for mercy, turn their eyes to God, Then fall in death on their loved Cuban sod, “There are no reconcentrados now.” They beg for bread, but cruel Spain denies, She does not heed heartrending children’s cries, Nor the mother pleading in anguish wild, “Pray give a morsel to my starving child.” “There are no reconcentrados now.” No father’s prayer, however strong and good, Can draw from Spain a single ounce of food; No mother’s tears, however freely shed, Can make one less among the Cuban dead: “There are no reconcentrados now.” See the starving babe, hear its wailing cry, Searching for food it finds the fountain dry; What sorrow racks the dying mother’s head, The babe must die, alas! the mother’s dead: “There are no reconcentrados now.” See the hollow cheeks, see the sunken eyes, See the shrivelled limbs, hear the children’s cries, Their flesh all gone, reduced to skin and bone, With scarcely strength to give a dying moan: “There are no reconcentrados now.”