Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/75

Rh To the cool of our deep verandas—

To the blaze of our jewelled main,

To the night, to the palms in the moonlight,

And the fire-fly in the cane!

To the hearth of our people's people—

To her well-ploughed windy sea,

To the hush of our dread high-altar

Where The Abbey makes us We;

To the grist of the slow-ground ages,

To the gain that is yours and mine—

To the Bank of the Open Credit,

To the Power-house of the Line!

We've drunk to the Queen—God bless her!—

We've drunk to our mothers' land;

We've drunk to our English brother

(And we hope he'll understand).

We've drunk as much as we're able,

And the Cross swings low for the morn;

Last toast—and your foot on the table!—

A health to the Native-born!