PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
Project Gutenberg Archive
Complete unabridged public-domain literary work from the Project Gutenberg archive.
Project Ashabi is being built as the home of original African comics, webtoons, graphic novels, and fiction.
This third-party Novel / Book title is temporary preview content. Step by step, third-party titles will be phased out and replaced exclusively by Ashabi Originals created by African writers and artists.
Utopia of Usurers I. Art and Advertisement II. Letters and the New Laureates III. Unbusinesslike Business IV. The War on Holidays V. The Church of the Servile State VI. Science and the Eugenists VII. The Evolution of the Prison VIII. The Lash for Labour IX. The Mask of Socialism
The Escape The New Raid The New Name A Workman’s History of England The French Revolution and the Irish Liberalism: A Sample The Fatigue of Fleet Street The Amnesty for Aggression Revive the Court Jester The Art of Missing the Point The Servile State Again The Empire of the Ignorant The Symbolism of Krupp The Tower of Bebel A Real Danger The Dregs of Puritanism The Tyranny of Bad Journalism The Poetry of the Revolution
“A drove of cattle came into a village called Swords; and was stopped by the rioters.”--Daily Paper.
In the place called Swords on the Irish road It is told for a new renown How we held the horns of the cattle, and how We will hold the horns of the devils now Ere the lord of hell with the horn on his brow Is crowned in Dublin town.
Light in the East and light in the West, And light on the cruel lords, On the souls that suddenly all men knew, And the green flag flew and the red flag flew, And many a wheel of the world stopped, too, When the cattle were stopped at Swords.
Be they sinners or less than saints That smite in the street for rage, We know where the shame shines bright; we know You that they smite at, you their foe, Lords of the lawless wage and low, This is your lawful wage.
You pinched a child to a torture price That you dared not name in words; So black a jest was the silver bit That your own speech shook for the shame of it, And the coward was plain as a cow they hit When the cattle have strayed at Swords.
The wheel of the torrent of wives went round To break men’s brotherhood; You gave the good Irish blood to grease The clubs of your country’s enemies; you saw the brave man beat to the knees: And you saw that it was good.
Arthur Conan Doyle
