They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle his inside,
(In the cooler he can square it with his God).
He will spend his nights in places where the demi-monde reside,
(In the morning he'll be minus watch and wad).
They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man,
They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can,
Till he curses his existence and the day that it began,
And he wishes he was rotting in the sod.
He will write long tales to England, tales of bitterness and woe,
(They will print 'em in the papers over there).
He will tell them pretty nearly everything he doesn't know,
(And they'll take it all for gospel over there).
He will tell them that the country isn't fit for gentlemen,
That any who escape from it do not come back again,
He is handy with his language and he wields a bitter pen—
To the truth of each assertion he would swear.
He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, he's a bum,
(And the country hasn't any room for such)
And they class him in the papers as "European scum,"
(They would rather have the Irish or the Dutch).
He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of every joke,
He is wearing borrowed trousers—he has put his own in soak—
He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, and broke,
And of sympathy he won't get over-much.
* * * * * * *
In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of his own,
(He had to learn his lesson at the start)
With a happy wife and children he is trying to atone—
(For he loves the country now with all his heart).
He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, he's a brick;
He's the kind you may annihilate but you can never lick,
For he played and lost, and played and lost, and stayed and took the trick;
In a world of men he'll play a manly part.
Knee-deep our prairies link the seas,
Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend;
We hold unturned the larder keys
On which the future years depend:
And shall we suffer alien throngs
Usurp the land to us belongs?
What though we are to fortune born
And all our paths are paved with gold?
We flaunt our folly up to scorn,
Because we keep not what we hold:
Why should we rob our right of birth
To foster all the breeds of earth?