Classic Poem

“I am an Ussian true,” he said;
“Keep off the grass there, Mister Bull!
For if you don't, I'll bang your head
And bang your belly-full.

“Now mark, my burly jingo-man,
So prone to muss and fuss and cuss,
I am an Ussian, spick and span,
From out the land of Us!”

The stout man smole a frosty smile—
“An Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or Russ?”
“No, no! an Ussian, every while;
My land the land of Us.”

“Aw! Usland, Outland? or, maybe,
Some Venezuela I'd forgot.
Hand out your map and let me see
Where Usland is, and what.”

The Yankman leaned and spread his map
And shewed the land of Us and shewed,
Then eyed and eyed that paunchy chap,
And pulled his chin and chewed.

“What do you want?” A face grew red,
And red chop whiskers redder grew.
“I want the earth,” the Ussian said,
“And all Alaska too.

“My stars swim up yon seas of blue;
No Shind am I, Boer, Turk or Russ.
I am an Ussian—Ussian true;
My land the land of Us.

“My triple North Star lights me on,
My Southern Cross leads ever thus;
My sun scarce sets till burst of dawn.
Hands off the land of Us!”