Saturday Night in the Slums

 

Why do I stare at faces, why,

Nor watch the happy children more?

Since Age has now a blackened eye,

And that grey hair is stained with gore.

 

For an old woman passed, and she

Would hide her face when I did stare,

But when she turns that face from me,

There's clotted blood in her grey hair.

 

Aye, here was hell last night to play,

The scream of children, murder cries;

When I came forth at early day,

I saw old Age with blackened eyes.

 

Why do I stare at people so,

Nor watch the little children more,

If one such brutal passions show,

And joy is all the other's store?

 

O for the shot in some fierce land,

A sword or dagger firmly held:

No brutal kick, no mauling hand,

No horrors of the partly killed.

 

There is the man with brutal brow,

The child with hunger's face of care:

The woman-it is something now

If she lose pride to dress her hair.

 

I will give children my best hours,

And of their simple ways will sing:

Just as a bird heeds less old flowers

And sings his best to buds in spring.