O cruel War when will thy horrors cease
And all thy slaughtering of poor men give oer
O sheath O sheath thy bloody blade in peace
Nor stain thy hand with human blood no more
See at yon door were round the children swarm
The piteous object of thy rage appears
Thou'st left him nothing but a single arm
Both legs are gone & he is old in years
O shatter'd man did ever eyes behold
A more distressing form of misery
(...)
O what I owe the tender feeling poor
Since I've been brought to this sad state you see
Ne'er have I left their lowly welcome Door
Without some token of their Charity
But O in vain (it grieves me to relate)
These wooden stumps & this poor armless side
Attracts the pity of the rich & great
They deem my sorrows far beneath their pride
Yon house that shows its owners wealth & power
Lur'd me to ask relief but ask'd in vain
A scornful proudling drove me from the door
To crave a morsel from the needy swain
But ah ye Rich as rich as you may be
You—tho You fancy you can't want no more
May by misfortune be reduc'd like me
And glad to beg a crust from door to
