’neath strange stars dream as low the banyan bends
O’er heathens singing by their huts—my friends!
We call them heathens, well, ’tis habit most.
King Mafeleto is my royal friend:
His ancestors, ’tis true, did eat on toast
Their mortal enemies, but Heaven defend
That I should judge men by their long-past crimes—
We White Men, too, have had some fine old times.
They’re chanting pagan songs by their hut-fires;
At each full breast clings one sweet tiny mouth,