The Seven Seas

THE MIRACLES

I sent a message to my dear —A thousand leagues and more to her —The 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 flameDid war against the wave for me.Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,To bid me change my mind again —He broke his teeth along my rail,And, roaring, swung behind again.I stayed the sun at noon to tellMy way across the waste of it;I read the storm before it fellAnd made the better haste of it.Afar, I hailed the land at night —The towers I built had heard of me —And, 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 needs —Too 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 seeWhere 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 soulRose 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 mothersTo call old England "home";We read of the English sky-lark,Of the spring in the English lanes,But we screamed with the painted loriesAs 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 honourWe pledge to our native soil!I charge you charge your glasses —I charge you drink with meTo the men of the Four New Nations,And the Islands of the Sea —To the last least lump of coralThat none may stand outside,And our own good pride shall teach usTo praise our comrade's pride.To the hush of the breathless morningOn the thin, tin, crackling roofs,To the haze of the burned back-rangesAnd 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 aboutWith 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

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