Let him shout on, pass me the full nut-bowl,
I’m old, would I trust to his wretched creed?
I, with my fifty gods, that soothe my soul,
Must fail them all—trust to one god—indeed!
Look you—I’m wise, a dead white man is dead
Should he offend his Heav’n while ’neath the sun—And
we?—well, at the worst, when our soul’s fled,
If fifty fail, we’ve still his Mighty One!
He’d steal our souls, curse him, his lying race
Claimed my blue seas and this my ancient isle!