The shame of Amajuba Hill Lies heavy on our line, But here is shame completer still And England makes no sign. Unchallenged, in the market place Of Freedom's chosen land, Our rulers pass our rule and race Into the Stranger's hand. At a great price you loosed the yoke 'Neath which our brethren lay (Your dead that perished ere 'twas broke Are scarcely dust to-day). Think you ye freed them at that price ? Wake, or your toil is vain! Our rulers jugglingly devise To sell them back again. Back to the ancient bitterness Ye ended once for all— Back to oppression none may guess Who have not borne its thrall— Back to the slough of their despond Helots anew, held fast By England's seal upon the bond As Helots to the last. What is their sin that they are made Rebellion's lawful prey ? This is their sin: that oft betrayed They did not oft betray ; That to their hurt they kept their vows, That for their faith they died— God help them, children of Our House, Whom England hath denied. But we—what God shall turn our doom— What blessings dare we claim, Who slay a nation in the womb To crown a trickster's game? Who come before amazed mankind, Foresworn in party-feud, And search the forms of law to bind Our blood to servitude. Now, even now, before men learn How near we broke our trust, Now, even now, ere we return Dominion to the dust; Now, ere the Gates of Mercy close For ever 'gainst the line That sells its sons to serve its foes— Will England make no sign ?