⁠To the blaze of our jewelled main,
To the night, to the palms in the moonlight,
⁠And the fire-fly in the cane!

To the hearth of our people's people—
⁠To her well-ploughed windy sea,
To the hush of our dread high-altar
⁠Where The Abbey makes us We;
To the grist of the slow-ground ages,
⁠To the gain that is yours and mine—
To the Bank of the Open Credit,
⁠To the Power-house of the Line!

We've drunk to the Queen—God bless her!—
⁠We've drunk to our mothers' land;
We've drunk to our English brother
⁠(And we hope he'll understand).
We've drunk as much as we're able,
⁠And the Cross swings low for the morn;
Last toast—and your foot on the table!—
⁠A health to the Native-born!