Oh, a startled Fool, and a Fool in haste
Awoke on a later day,
When they sped the word that a foe laid waste
His ports by the smiling bay;
And his voice was shrill as he bade his sons
Haste out to the sound of the booming guns.
But scarce had he raised his rallying cry,
Scarce had he called one note,
When he died, as ever a fool must die,
With his war-song still in his throat.
And an open ditch was the hasty grave
Of the Fool who fathered a hopeless Slave.
They point the moral, they tell the tale,
And the old world wags its head:
"If a Fool hath treasure, and Might prevail,
Then the Fool must die," 'tis said.
And the end of it all is a broken gun
And the heritage gleaned by a hapless son.
Gyved and chained in his father's home,
He toiled 'neath a conqueror's rule;
While they flung in his face the taunt of his race:
A Slave and the Son of a Fool.
