HKB
To the rain that never chills -- To the land of the waiting spring-time, To our five-meal, meat-fed men, To the tall, deep-bosomed women, And the children nine and ten!
And the children nine and ten (Stand up!), And the life we live and know, Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about With the weight of a two-fold blow!
To the far-flung fenceless prairie Where the quick cloud-shadows trail, To our neighbour's barn in the offing And the line of the new-cut rail; To the plough in her league-long furrow With the gray Lake gulls behind -- To the weight of a half-year's winter And the warm wet western wind!
To the home of the floods and thunder, To her pale dry healing blue -- To the lift of the great Cape combers, And the smell of the baked Karroo. To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head -- To the reef and the water-gold, To the last and the largest Empire, To the map that is half unrolled!
To our dear dark foster-mothers, To the heathen songs they sung -- To the heathen speech we babbled Ere we came to the white man's tongue. To the cool of our deep verandas -- To the blaze of our jewelled main, To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, And the fire-fly in the cane!
To the hearth of our people's people -- To her well-ploughed windy sea, To the hush of our dread high-altar Where The Abbey makes us We; To the grist of the slow-ground ages, To the gain that is yours and mine -- To the Bank of the Open Credit, To the Power-house of the Line!
We've drunk to the Queen -- God bless her! -- We've drunk to our mothers' land; We've drunk to our English brother (And we hope he'll understand). We've drunk as much as we're able, And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast -- and your foot on the table! -- A health to the Native-born!
A health to the Native-born (Stand up!), We're six white men arow, All bound to sing o' the little things we care about, All bound to fight for the little things we care about With the weight of a six-fold blow! By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!), From the Orkneys to the Horn, All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it), A health to the Native-born!
THE KING
“Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said; “With bone well carved he went away, Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead, And jasper tips the spear to-day. Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance, And he with these. Farewell, Romance!”
“Farewell, Romance!” the Lake-folk sighed; “We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain-side Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!”
“Farewell, Romance!” the Soldier spoke; “By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke Of arquebus and culverin. Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!”
“Farewell, Romance!” the Traders cried; Our keels ha' lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide Heave up the wharf where we would be; The known and noted breezes swell Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!”
“Good-bye, Romance!” the Skipper said; “He vanished with the coal we burn; Our dial marks full steam ahead, Our speed is timed to half a turn. Sure as the ferried barge we ply 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!”
“Romance!” the season-tickets mourn, “He never ran to catch his train, But passed with coach and guard and horn -- And left the local -- late again!” Confound Romance! . . . And all unseen Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.