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!

F

THE KING

(1894)

AREWELL, 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!'

His hand was on the lever laid,

His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks,
His whistle waked the snowbound grade,
His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks;
By dock and deep and mine and mill
The Boy-god reckless laboured still!

Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, With unconsidered miracle,

Hedged in a backward-gazing world;

Then taught his chosen bard to say: 'Our King was with us-yesterday!'

THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS

(1893)

WAY by the lands of the Japanee
Where the paper lanterns glow

A

And the crews of all the shipping drink
In the house of Blood Street Joe,
At twilight, when the landward breeze
Brings up the harbour noise.

And ebb of Yokohama Bay

Swigs chattering through the buoys,
In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining Rooms
They tell the tale anew

Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight,

When the 'Baltic' ran from the 'Northern Light'
And the 'Stralsund' fought the two.

Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel,

When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal,

Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves,

And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin and the seal

they breed for themselves;

For when the matkas seek the shore to drop their pups

aland,

The great man-seal haul out of the sea, aroaring, band by band;

And when the first September gales have slaked their

rutting-wrath,

The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path.

Then dark they lie and stark they lie-rookery, dune, and floe,

And the Northern Lights come down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow;

And God Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe,

He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow.

But since our women must walk gay and money buys

their gear,

The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by

year.

English they be and Japanee that hang on the Brown Bear's flank,

And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank!

It was the sealer 'Northern Light,' to the Smoky Seas she bore.

With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore.

('Baltic,' 'Stralsund,' and 'Northern Light'-oh! they were birds of a feather

Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three seal-thieves together!)

And at last she came to a sandy cove and the 'Baltic' lay therein,