And bombard the apes with pebbles in exchange for coco-nuts.
When we wearied of our wand'rings 'neath the blazing Southern heaven
And dreamed of Kentish orchards fragrant-scented after rain,
Of the cream there is in Cornwall and the cider brewed in Devon,
We would crowd our yards with canvas and sweep foaming home again,
Singing—
Cheerily, O lady mine,
Cheerily, my sweetheart true,
For the blest Blue Peter's flying and I'm rolling home to you;
For I'm tired of Spanish ladies and of tropic afterglows,