I have a vague remembrance
       &nbsp Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
       &nbsp Or chronicle of old.

It was when brave King Sanchez
       &nbsp Was before Zamora slain,
And his great besieging army
       &nbsp Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordonez
       &nbsp Sallied forth in front of all,
And shouted loud his challenge
       &nbsp To the warders on the wall.

All the people of Zamora,
       &nbsp Both the born and the unborn,
As traitors did he challenge
       &nbsp With taunting words of scorn.

The living, in their houses,
       &nbsp And in their graves, the dead!
And the waters of their rivers,
       &nbsp And their wine, and oil, and bread!

There is a greater army,
       &nbsp That besets us round with strife,
A starving, numberless army,
       &nbsp At all the gates of life.
The poverty-stricken millions
       &nbsp Who challenge our wine and bread,
And impeach us all as traitors,
       &nbsp Both the living and the dead.
And whenever I sit at the banquet,
       &nbsp Where the feast and song are high,
Amid the mirth and the music
       &nbsp I can hear that fearful cry.
And hollow and haggard faces
       &nbsp Look into the lighted hall,
And wasted hands are extended
       &nbsp To catch the crumbs that fall.

For within there is light and plenty,
       &nbsp And odors fill the air;
But without there is cold and darkness,
       &nbsp And hunger and despair.

And there in the camp of famine,
       &nbsp In wind and cold and rain,
Christ, the great Lord of the army,
       &nbsp Lies dead upon the plain!