Classic Poem

The outer ends of earth are ours — for Orkney's windswept crags are thine;
Ill-known and inaccessible Rhodesia's endless miles are mine.
Yea, from these distant parts we come to meet beneath an alien sky,
Where, smoking in the driving sleet, the crested seas swing by.

Thine is a land now past its prime — past common fame since Ossian sang
(For Orkney knew full-mighty days when battle-axe on target rang);
Yet now a greater call is hers: by range and plain, through sun and snow,
Harden'd in frame and fair of form her sons and daughters go.

Theirs is no shallow boast or pomp, no empty cry on Freedom's name;
They are content to serve the Race, the Race that knows unending fame.
By unity each finds that strength that link'd the world and holds it yet
Bound by one law, one flag on which the sun can never set.

Whoe'er may be the god they serve; whate'er may be their hearts' desire;
Where'er may lie the roads they tread; expung'd of fear and lust and ire
They make a People thrice as great as Greece and Rome combin'd could breed —
They leave an Empire on their trail sow'd with a deathless seed.

The outer ends of earth are ours — for Inistore's grey crags are thine,
And, barely sav'd from utter wild, Rhodesia's silent wastes are mine.
Yea, from these distant parts we come to meet beneath an alien sky,
Where, smoking in the driving sleet, the crested seas swing by.