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To the hearth of our people's people—
To her well-ploughed windy sea,
Where the Abbey makes us We;
To the gain that is yours and mine-
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 to 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 oʻthe 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,
it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle
it), A health to the Native-born!
“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;
“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 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye !”
“Romance!” the Season-tickets mourn,
“ He never ran to catch his train,
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; In dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-god reckless laboured still.