Tyrant, o thou Fear!
Crippling art thou, Raging Pharaoh.
Thy decree is swift
Thy knife of angst stings all breasts
And stops all hearts from beating.
This phantom in the street
Hooded like the Shadow
Moves from door to door.
Is upon thy head
To steal from the little yeomen
Their ale and odes.
Where is the song in the taverns?
Where is the joy and mirth?
O, Pharaoh, with Bacchus’ crown,
You in your attire had silk and cashmere raiment
But stole the cotton-wool from the merrymakers.
Could you not spare them the miserable existence?
Or, must you continue to thresh us into the wind?