⁠Laid in his house alone;
His silent hearth without a fire,
⁠His sons and daughters gone.

Go, ask those children in the street
⁠Beside their mother's door;
Waiting to hear the lingering feet
⁠That they shall hear no more.

Ask those pale soldiers round the gate
⁠With famine-kindled eye.
They say, ' Zalona celebrates
⁠The day that she must die.'

The charger by his manger tied
⁠Has wasted many a day;
Yet ere the spur hath touched his side,
⁠Behold he sinks away!

And hungry dogs with wolflike cry
⁠Unburied corpses tear,
While their gaunt masters gaze and sigh
⁠And scarce the feast forbear.

Now, look down from Zalona's wall;
⁠There war the unwearied foe;
If ranks beneath the cannon fall,
⁠New ranks for ever grow.