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Afar, I hailed the land at night

The towers I built had heard of meAnd, ere my rocket reached its height, Had flashed my Love the word of me.

Earth gave her chosen men of strength
(They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation's length,
And toss the miles aside for me.

I snatched their toil to serve my needsToo slow their fleetest flew for me

I tired twenty smoking steeds,

And bade them bait a new for me.

I sent the lightnings forth to see

Where hour by hour she waited me.
Among ten million one was she,
And surely all men hated me!

Dawn ran to meet us at my goal

Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!—

And little folk of little soul

Rose up to buy and sell again!

THE NATIVE-BORN.

WE'VE drunk to the Queen-God bless her!-
We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother
(But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,

And the Cross swings low to the morn,

Last toast, and of obligation,

A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
To call old England "home";

We read of the English sky-lark,

Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
As we rode on the dusty plains!

They passed with their old-world legends-
Their tales of wrong and dearth-
Our fathers held by purchase,

But we by the right of birth;

Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil,

And our faith and our hope and our honour We pledge to our native soil!

I charge you charge your glasses-
I charge you drink with me

To the men of the Four New Nations,

And the Islands of the Sea

To the last least lump of coral
That none may stand outside,
And our own good pride shall teach us
To praise our comrade's pride.

To the hush of the breathless morning
On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
To the haze of the burned back-ranges
And the dust of the shoeless hoofs-
To the risk of a death by drowning,
To the risk of a death by drouth-
To the men of a million acres,

To the Sons of the Golden South.

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 sheep on a thousand hills,
To the sun that never blisters,

To the rain that never chills-
To the land of the waiting springtime,
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 sungTo 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!

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