But I said, "Home's gone different an' I've somehow lost the touch,
An' nobody's written for fifty years, so they're not worryin' much;
An' I like it here; I love it." Says Hennessey, "Well, I'm shot!
Would ye die an' be buried in India?" "Well, Natty," says I, "why not?"
"East Africa, then," said Hennessey; "it's a promisin' place is that—
Money to make an' jobs galore, easy an' rich an' fat;
An' think of the ridin' an' shootin' an' the camp an' the trekkin' too;
You've no ties," said Hennessey; "it's the place for a chap like you.
There's a grand career
For a pioneer,