To the Sons of the Golden South, (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 single blow! To the smoke of a hundred coasters, To the rain that never chills— And the children nine and ten, (Stand up!) 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 the home of the floods and thunder, To the lift of the great Cape combers, To the last and the largest Empire, 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 the Power-house of the Line! We've drunk to the Queen-God bless her!- A health to the Native-born, (Stand up!) 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!" 66 "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!"”' |