We ask but a little portion of the green, ambitious earth;
Only to sow and sing and reap in the land of our birth.
We ask not coaling stations, nor ports in the China seas,
We leave to the big child-nations such rivalries as these.
We have learned the lesson of Time, and we know three things of worth;
Only to sow and sing and reap in the land of our birth.
O leave us little margins, waste ends of land and sea,
A little grass, and a hill or two, and a shadowing tree;
O leave us our little rivers that sweetly catch the sky,
To drive our mills, and to carry our wood, and to ripple by.
Once long ago, as you, with hollow pursuit of fame,
We filled all the shaking world with the sound of our name,
But now are we glad to rest, our battles and boasting done,
Glad just to sow and sing and reap in our share of the sun.
Of this O will ye rob us,—with a foolish mighty hand,
Add with such cruel sorrow, so small a land to your land?
So might a boy rejoice him to conquer a hive of bees,
Overcome ants in battle,—we are scarcely more mighty than these—
So might a cruel heart hear a nightingale singing alone,
And say, “I am mighty! See how the singing stops with a stone!”