By the myriad ship-lights stretching through
The Roads of Singapore,
By the crooked, winding, white-walled streets
Of burning Bangalore:
By the mighty, gilded Shwe Dagon
Aglitter above the trees,
Where the tiny ti bells tinkle
In the sough of the sunset breeze:
From where the terrace-sculptured gates
Of the great Sri Rangam rise,
To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,
Red-gold against the skies:
By crowded, sewerless Canton—
By Hong Kong’s towering lights—
By the gorgeous Rajputana stars
That blazon the blue-black nights:
We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—
Outposters—far—alone—
Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,
And we claim you for our own.
(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut
And the roar of the rolling cart,
Beyond the blind of the stifled mind
And the hawking, haggling mart.)
And some of you were “rotters”—
And some were “18 fine”—
But on the whole—we saw your soul—
Oh outbound kin of mine.
So stand we pledged and hand in hand
By every ocean, gulf and land,
Stout hearts and humble knees:
Oh men of the Outer Reaches—
Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—
Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—
Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.
[A] Pronounced Poorook Jow.