Spume of the sea and breath of the air,
Scent of the woodlands and dells;
Blood of my heart and my being,
How rare are my visits to thee and thy dells.
Land of my infancy, on thy sweet breast
How I drank of that life giving stream
Till thy songs and thy folklore
On me were imprest
Like thy hills I still see in my dreams.
Island of courtesy, beauty and grace
Land of a race true and kin
Ne'er shall the foreigner throw in thy face
Word of insult, nor taunt
Lest they find that in Britain's cold bosom
There burns a deep fire
Which unconsciously calls to us all.
And the hand which helped them out of the mire
Will again heed the Motherland's call.
Sons of our Empire, far flung to the breeze
Whose mother tongue circles the world;
Stand up for your flag in such moments as these
For a traitorous few wish it furled.
Had they fought as they should
When the war trumpets rang,
We might still wish them luck in their aim.
But they played not their part
Midst the shrapnels loud clang,
Nor e'en now are they playing the game.
- W.A Steward
