To All Whom It May Concern

Surely, beyond the nethermost pit of hell
    Some darker, deeper halls of doom await
    The rogues, who did for gain this deed of hate!
The slaves to Mammon’s lust who dared to sell
Death to the crews they catered for—so well!
    —So smilingly! then sent them to their fate
    Poisoned by garbage, while their horses ate
Mildew for hay, and sickened, starved, and fell

Oh, England! has the madness of the mart
    So demonised thy merchants? can our land
        Nurse such dark traitors, rear such serpent
As stings unseen, numbs brotherhood at the heart,
    Slays honour, and unnerves the soldier’s hand
        By sense of treacherous vile ingratitude? 

(Ballads of the War, p. 27)