Hymne Des Transportés (Hymn Of The Transported)
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,—on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
Athirst! The scant water-drop burns!
An-hungered,—black bread! Work, work, ye accurst!
At each stroke of the pick wild laughter returns
Loud echoed; lo! from the soil Death hath burst,
Round a man folds arms, and to sleep anew turns.