We saw a Roman Empire fall, And fell; but falling, learned to rise. We heard the voice of Progress call, And in our folly we were wise: When Briton, Saxon, Norman, Dane, Bequeathed their progeny the main. And conquered joined with conqueror; And Norman fire, with Saxon zeal Combined; we swept the world before The twanging bow, and clanging steel. Tyrants unmurm’ring bore our yoke, And braggarts thought before they spoke. Then Iron Might took Right to wife; And lo! our liberty was born! We revelled in the newer life When King was mated by a pawn. Men lived between, of mighty worth; From Montfort’s death to Cromwell’s birth. We bore the arrogance of kings, But bravèd death in fear of God. We rose from great, to greater things. The weak grew potent at our nod. And nations watched the scales of Fate, To see where England threw her weight! We took our seed to other climes, And from it sprang by divers seas, An Oak—that grew among the Limes! An Oak—among the Blue-gum trees! The Cactus left the land because The Acorn brought its ordered laws. And like a giant, bearing stings Of gnats, who joy to see him wince, We stand—the envy of the kings Despised by every petty prince! Who know, that while enduring yet, We bear—but we do not forget. We lived, and live! The world shall see An inextinguishable flame. The nations fade; but we shall be! When Gaul and Teuton are a name! For us the seven seas in one: For landlocked hordes—oblivion. *NATURE FAILS* You can eas’ly understand That the green of medder-land Doesn’t strike the bloke that ’as to push the roller; An’ Nature at the best, When you put ’er to the test, Undiluted, is a very poor consoler. An’ the blue of summer skies ’As no beauties for the eyes Of defaulters on parade in marchin’ order; An’ the rainiest of morns Brings no feelin’s—’cept to corns, Of a feller pickin’ oakum with a warder. Wot’s the beauty of the spot, When you’re bein’ drilled with shot? Wot is Nature when you’re checked for bein’ dirty? An’ eternity’s a blank To a feller on the crank, When ev’ry blessed minute seems like thirty! Bein’ punished for your deeds, On fatig’ a-pickin’ weeds, Can a bloke admire the beauties of the clover? Does the sunset on the ’ills Give defaulters any thrills Except to know the day is nearly over. Bein’ frog-marched to the clink, Does a feller stop to think On the grass before ’is eyes so swif’ly runnin’, ’Ow that ev’ry single blade Is most wonderfully made Wiv a skill beyond all artificial cunnin’?