God said: I am tired of kings;
I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.
Think ye I have made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?
My angel—his name is Freedom—
Choose him to be your king.
He shall cut pathways east and west
And fend you with his wing.
I will never have a noble;
No lineage counted great,
Fishers and choppers and plowmen
Shall constitute a state,
And ye shall succor man,
‘Tis nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again;
Beware from right to swerve.
