Not so! O' that warld-liftin' joy no after-fall could vex, Ye've left a glimmer still to cheer the Man-the That holds, in spite o' knock and scale, o' friction, An' by that light-now, mark my word-we'll build the Perfect Ship. I'll never last to judge her lines or take her curvenot I. But I ha' lived an' I ha' worked. 'Be thanks to Thee, Most High! An' I ha' done what I ha' done-judge Thou if ill or well Always Thy Grace preventin' me. . . . Losh! Yon's the "Stand by " bell. Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin'-watch is set. Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pela gian yet. Now I'll tak' on. 'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal? . . . I'll burn 'em down to port. THE MIRACLES I SENT a message to my dear A thousand leagues and more to HerThe dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear, And Lost Atlantis bore to Her. Behind my message hard I came, And nigh had found a grave for me; But that I launched of steel and flame Did war against the wave for me. Uprose the deep, by gale on gale, I stayed the sun at noon to tell I read the storm before it fell And made the better haste of it. Afar, I hailed the land at night— Earth sold her chosen men of strength I snatched their toil to serve my needs- And bade them bait a new for me. I sent the lightnings forth to see Dawn ran to meet me at my goal- Rose up to buy and sell again! THE NATIVE-BORN We've drunk to the Queen-God bless her!- And the Cross swings low for the morn; Last toast, and of obligation, A health to the Native-born! They change their skies above them, We read of the English skylark, 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- Our fathers held by purchase, But we by the right of birth; Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, And our faith and our hope and our honour I charge you charge your glasses— That none may stand outside, And our own good pride shall teach us To the hush of the breathless morning To the risk of a death by drowning, To the Sons of the Golden South! To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!), Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, To the smoke of a hundred coasters, |