I smell your ruin out. I light and croak My sombre lore, As swaggering you go by, O heart of oak Rotten to the core!
Look westward! Ireland’s vengeful eyes are cast On freedom won. Look eastward! India stirs from sleep at last. You are undone!
Look southward, where Australia hears your voice, And turns away! O brutal hypocrite, she makes her choice With the rising day!
Foul Esau, you who sold your high birthright For gilded mud, Who did the wrong and, priestlike, called it right, And swindled God!
_The hour is gone of insult_, _pain and patience_; _The hour is come_ _When they arise_, _the faithful mightier nations_, _To drag you down_!
England, the land I loved With passionate pride, For hate of whom I live Who for love had died,
Can I, while shines the sun, That hour regain When I again may come to thee And love again?
No, not while that flag Of greed and lust Flaunts in the air, untaught To drag the dust!—
Never, till expiant, I see you kneel, And, brandished, gleams aloft The foeman’s steel!
Ah, then to speed, and laugh, As my heart caught the knife: “_Mother_, _I love you_! _Here_, _Here is my life_!”
At anchor in that harbour of the island, The Chinese gate, We lay where, terraced under green-clad highland, The sea-town sate.
Ships, steamers, sailors, many a flag and nation, A motley crew, Junks, sampans, all East’s swarming jubilation, I watched and knew.
Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling On the boon breeze, The church-bells’ chiming echoes rang out, telling Of inland peace.
O English chimes, your music rising and falling I cannot praise, Although to me it come sweet-sad recalling Dear childish days.
Yet, English chimes,—last links of chains that sever, Worn out and done, That land and creed that I have left for ever,— Ring on, ring on!
There is much in this sea-way city I have not met with before, But one or two things I notice That I seem to have known of yore.
In the lovely tropical verdure, In the streets, behold I can The hideous English buildings And the brutal English man!
I stand and watch the soldiers Marching up and down, Above the fresh green cricket-ground Just outside the town.
I stand and watch and wonder When in the English land This poor fool Tommy Atkins Will learn and understand?