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 Sanchez
Was before Zamora slain
And His great besieging army
Lay encamped upon the plain
Don Diego de Odones
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 in the waters of 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 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
For within there's light and plenty
And odours fill the air
But without there's 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