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Date: 16 April 1915

Transcript:

The Pirate-Huns.

Satanic fiends whose "Glory" sounds
The deepest pit of hell.
Upon your ghoulish deeds redounds [sic]
You War Lord's honour well.

We pity you—your "glory" keep—
Your Iron Crosses wear;
But hearts are cold, and angels weep,
England will never share—

The abyssmal [sic] "sport" which you now play
You murder with delight—
Innocent victims for The Day—
But your "Day" shall be your "Night."

You drown our Red Cross Nurses brave,
And grin and jeer in fun,
But you lose your soul beneath the wave—
You despicable Hun!

The ''Falaba" and Scarborough—
Have branded you as Cain;
Your crafty cunning's thorough—
But tell us what you gain?

You gain your "God's" approval—
You gain your Huns applause
But you quicken our avowal—
To prosecute our cause.

We scarce believe you have a soul—
A spirit, sweet, divine,
Oh what a base inglorious role—
Herr German now is thine!

Our God—your Ally is you say,
Your God we do not know;
The prince of darkness you misname,
At his cloven hoof's [sic] you bow!

Your Night oercasts its shadows now,
Enshrouding you in fears—
Your darkening Day beclouds your brow,
And blood shall be your tears!

Carmarthen, April 12th; 1915. T. I. JONES.

Source:
'The Pirate-Huns.' The Carmarthen Weekly Reporter. 16 Apr. 1915. 2.

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