We've drunk to the Queen—God bless her!—
⁠We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother
⁠(But he does not understand);
We've drunk to the wide creation,
⁠And the Cross swings low for the morn,
Last toast, and of obligation,
⁠A health to the Native-born!

They change their skies above them,
⁠But not their hearts that roam!
We learned from our wistful mothers
⁠To call old England 'home';
We read of the English sky-lark,
⁠Of the spring in the English lanes,
But we screamed with the painted lories
⁠As we rode on the dusty plains!

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