It's no good, Nat,
For I tell you flat
I've cottoned to India an' that's just that;
Bus hogeva; all done—finish; I'm here till the trees turn blue,
For I love them early mornings, shiny an' clear an' grey,
An' I love the cool o' the evening when the temple drummers play,
An' the long, long, lazy afternoons, when the whole creation sleeps—
Quit it? Old man, I couldn't; I'm India's now for keeps.
"So Hennessey, you go home," I says, "an' see to the wife an' kid."
"You'll follow me there one day," says he, an' I says, "Heaven forbid!