The Younger Son

When he's on the blazin' desert, an' his canteen's sprung a leak,

An' he's all alone an' crazy, an' he's crawlin' like a snail,

An' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak,

An' he gouges down fer water, an' the raven's on his trail;

When he's done with care and cursin', an' he feels more like to cry,

An' he sees ol' Death a-grinnin', an' he thinks upon his crimes,

Then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die,

Of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines.

Oh, the little ol' log cabin, it's a solemn shinin' mark

When a feller gits ter sinnin', an' a-goin' ter the wall,

An' folks don't understand him, an' he's gropin' in the dark,

An' he's sick of bein' cursed at, an' he's longin' fer his call:

When the sun of life's a-sinkin' you can see it 'way above,

On the hill from out the shadder in a glory 'gin the sky,

An' your mother's voice is callin', an' her arms are stretched in love,

An' somehow you're glad you're goin', an' you ain't a-scared to die;

When you'll be like a kid again, an' nestle to her breast,

An' never leave its shelter, an' forget, an' love, an' rest.

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 a-bustle, 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 parakeets 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 splendour 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.

THE MARCH OF THE DEAD