I lift my voice, and, lo, an army wakes—
A mighty host, a hundred thousand strong—
To spread the message; while the nation quakes
And thunders with the burden of my song:
"Ten lengths from home Grey Lad outstripped The Witch,
And passed the post, by just a short neck, first."
These are the words, the pregnant words, for which
The land's athirst.
They are the children of my brain, mine own!—
These mighty words for which the people yearn;
The product of my genius alone!
Would you begrudge the laurels that I earn?
Mark you, yon sturdy native, strong o' limb,
That leans against the lamp-post o'er the way—
Approach, and learn of my great fame from him.
Approach, and say:—
"Awake! Arise! A curse on him who waits!
Behold, young man, thy country needs thy like;
The foeman's hordes are panting at our gates.
Arouse, young patriot, go forth and strike!
Awake, and cast thy reeking fag away!
Arise, and take the white man's burden up!"
I'll lay you ten to one in quids he'll say:
"Wot's won the Cup?"
