For things we never mention, |
For Art misunderstood - |
For excellent intention |
That did not turn to good; |
From ancient tales’ renewing, |
From clouds we would not clear - |
Beyond the Law’s pursuing |
We fled, and settled here. |
|
We took no tearful leaving, |
We bade no long good-byes. |
Men talked of crime and thieving, |
Men wrote of fraud and lies. |
To save our injured feelings |
’Twas time and time to go - |
Behind was dock and Dartmoor, |
Ahead lay Callao! |
|
The widow and the orphan |
That pray for ten per cent, |
They clapped their trailers on us |
To spy the road we went. |
They watched the foreign sailings |
|
And that’s your Christian people |
Returning good for ill! |
|
God bless the thoughtful islands |
Where never warrants come; |
God bless the just Republics |
That give a man a home, |
That ask no foolish questions, |
But set him on his feet; |
And save his wife and daughters |
From the workhouse and the street! |
|
On church and square and market |
The noonday silence falls: |
You'll hear the drowsy mutter |
Of the fountain in our halls, |
Asleep amid the yuccas |
The city takes her ease - |
Till twilight brings the land-wind |
To the clicking jalousies. |
|
Day long the diamond weather, |
The high, unaltered blue - |
The smell of goats and incense |
And the mule-bells tinkling through. |
|
That keeps us from our kin, |
And once a month our levee |
When the English mail comes in. |
|
You’ll find us up and waiting |
To treat you at the bar; |
You’ll find us less exclusive |
That the average English are. |
We’ll meet you with a carriage, |
Too glad to show you round, |
But - we do not lunch on steamers, |
For they are Ehglish ground. |
|
We sail o' nights to England |
And join our smiling Boards - |
Our wives go in with Viscounts |
And our daughters dance with Lords, |
But behind our princely doings, |
And behind each coup we make, |
We feel there's Something Waiting |
And - we meet It when we wake. |
|
Ah, God! One sniff of England - |
To greet our flesh and blood - |
To hear the traffic slurring |
|
|
Our streets of lost delight! |
How stands the old Lord Warden? |
Are Dover's cliffs still white? |