⁠Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
To our neighbour's barn in the offing
⁠And the line of the new-cut rail;
To the plough in her league-long furrow
⁠With the gray Lake gulls behind—
To the weight of a half-year's winter
⁠And the warm wet western wind!

To the home of the floods and thunder,
⁠To her pale dry healing blue—
To the lift of the great Cape combers,
⁠And the smell of the baked Karroo.
To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head—
⁠To the reef and the water-gold,
To the last and the largest Empire,
⁠To the map that is half unrolled!

To our dear dark foster-mothers,
⁠To the heathen songs they sung—
To the heathen speech we babbled