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 car 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; 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; "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 tidal trains we ply Romance!" the Season-tickets mourn, "He never ran to catch his train, But passed with coach and guard and horn- Confound Romance!” . . . And all unseen His hand was on the lever laid, His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, |