Swords and Plowshares/The Tyrants' Song

​The Tyrants' Song

'TIS not the man with match alight Behind the barricade,Nor he who stoops to dynamite, That makes us feel afraid.For halter-end and prison-cell Soon quench these brief alarms;But where are found the means to quell The man with folded arms?
We dread the man who folds his arms And tells the simple truth,Whose strong, impetuous protest charms The virgin ear of youth,Who scorns the vengeance that we wreak, And smiles to meet his doom,Who on the scaffold still can speak, And preaches from the tomb.
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We kill the man with dagger drawn— The man with loaded gun;They never see the morning dawn Nor hail the rising sun;But who shall slay the immortal man Whom nothing mortal harms,Who never fought and never ran— The man with folded arms?

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