The highway was hot and dusty, oppressive the air;
The sun on the tired bullocks beat down with pitiless glare.
Mere living skeletons were they, their worn-out hides scarce covering
their aching bones;
Hunger and thirst were their daily lot, while many a cruel blow
Forced them to drag their heavy load, though weary their gait and slow;
The look in their eyes was pitiful, so full of helpless pain,
While ever the cruel driver showered his blows like rain.

Have ye no heart, ye men of the East, that ye treat dumb creatures so?
Does it help you to bear your own weary lot to add to their tale of woe?
Bruised and maim, half-blind, and halt, you drive them until they drop!
Oh, had I the power I would wield it, such cruelty to stop;
When I see you prod them with pointed stick, my soul cries in
answering pain;
Oh, why will you treat your oxen so, and give to your land this stain?

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