Classic Poem

I AM coming, Uncle Sam!
And a little sore I am;
Twelve thousand miles of palm,
Through tropics twain, I trode,
From my own golden gate
Down past Magellan's Strait,
And round the Horn with freight,
Precious load.

Four hundred sons of mine
From the groves of giant pine,
The vineyards of the vine,
The mountain and the dall,
They come along with me
Their Uncle Sam to see;
Oh, next time, let it be
By canal!

We outsailed Captain Cook
And Sinbad in the book;
Our steel frames never shook,
For our smiths we swore upon;
The Stars and Stripes they blew
Past the Incas of Peru,
And the Patagonian knew
Oregon.

No cable of our own
Spoke in our uncle's tone;
All voiceless and alone,
Deep laden with our guns,
We slipped the Spaniard's snares
In the Bay of Buenos Ayres
By the good saint in our prayers —
Washington.

They gave us right good will,
The Republic of Brazil;
Of fuel we took fill,
And out again we wheeled;
The Equator it was hot,
But we never slacked our trot,
To reach that hotter spot —
Battlefield.

The Amazon's wide mouth,
We crossed its burning drouth,
Left Orinoco south
And all the brood of Spain's;
Till the air it seemed our own,
And the stars were purer sown,
And we felt our native zone
In our veins.

They may waylay us yet,
But the world will not forget
What workmanship we set,
That could stand this mighty trip;
It will fear our Arts afar.