From the Horn away to the western bay whence our guns are proudly borne.
A flying fleet and a host of hands to carry these rounds of shot!
And behold they have girdled the globe by half, and what is the gain they have brought?
This is the song of the wasters, ay, defenders, if you please,
Defenders against our fellows, with their wasters even as these,
For we stumble still at the lesson taught since ever the years were young,
That the chief defense of a nation is to guard its own hand and tongue.
This is the song of our sinning (for the fault is not theirs, but ours),
That we chain these slaves to our galley-ships as the symbol of our powers;
That we clap applause, that we cry hurrahs, that we vent our unthinking breath,