The People of the Abyss

I have a vague remembrance Of a story that is told In some ancient Spanish legend Or chronicle of old.

It was when brave King Sanche Was before Zamora slain, And his great besieging army Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordenez Sallied forth in front of all, And shouted loud his challenge To the warders on the wall.

All the people of Zamora, Both the born and the unborn, As traitors did he challenge With taunting words of scorn.

The living in their houses, And in their graves the dead, And the waters in their rivers, And their wine, and oil, and bread.

There is a greater army That besets us round with strife, A starving, numberless army At all the gates of life.

The poverty–stricken millions Who challenge our wine and bread, And impeach us all as traitors, Both the living and the dead.

And whenever I sit at the banquet, Where the feast and song are high, Amid the mirth and music I can hear that fearful cry.

And hollow and haggard faces Look into the lighted hall, And wasted hands are extended To catch the crumbs that fall

And within there is light and plenty, And odours fill the air; But without there is cold and darkness, And hunger and despair.

And there in the camp of famine, In wind, and cold, and rain, Christ, the great Lord of the Army, Lies dead upon the plain.