When times were bad my fiddle wailed their grief—
Till, by the camp-fires on the steep, one by one they fell asleep:
(I’ve buried three, dead in their boots beneath
The breadfruit trees, with all their dreams and Heaven knows what thwarted schemes!)
We’d tramped the cities, then we sought the huts.
And now?—secure on heathen isles, my pals still sport their hopeful smiles:
We’re looking thin on rum and coco-nuts!
So read these pioneer strains of mine, and drink deep, friend, as men do wine,
Of sunsets on the ocean’s foaming rim,
Of far-away and long ago where the scented trade winds blow