The Younger Son
If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There’s a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
And greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he’s your younger brother, the one you sent away
Because there wasn’t room for him at home;
And now he’s quite contented, and he’s glad he didn’t stay,
And he’s building Britain’s greatness o’er the foam.
When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun,
And the prairie is lit with rose and gold,
And the camp is all abustle, and the busy day’s begun,
He leaps into the saddle sure and bold.
Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout,
He rattles at a pace that nothing mars;
And when the night—winds whisper and camp—fires flicker out,
He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars.
When the wattle—blooms are drooping in the sombre she—oak glade,
And the breathless land is lying in a swoon,
He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade,
And he hears the bell—bird chime the Austral noon.
The parrakeets are silent in the gum—tree by the creek;
The ferny grove is sunshine—steeped and still;
But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek
His little lonely cabin on the hill.
Around the purple, vine—clad slope the argent river dreams;
The roses almost hide the house from view;
A snow—peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendor gleams;
The shadow deepens down on the karroo.
He seeks the lily—scented dusk beneath the orange tree;
His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows;
And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee,
And one is like the lily, one the rose.
He sees his white sheep dapple o’er the green New Zealand plain,
And where Vancouver’s shaggy ramparts frown,
When the sunlight threads the pine—gloom he is fighting might and main
To clinch the rivets of an Empire down.
You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west,
A child of nature, fearless, frank, and free;
And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast,
And he sends you loyal greeting o’er the sea.
You’ve a brother in the army, you’ve another in the Church;
One of you is a diplomatic swell;
You’ve had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch,
And yet I think he’s doing very well.
I’m sure his life is happy, and he doesn’t envy yours;
I know he loves the land his pluck has won;
And I fancy in the years unborn, while England’s fame endures,
She will come to bless with pride—The Younger Son.
Autres oeuvres par Robert W. Service...
