To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
  And the life we live and know,
Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
  With the weight of a single blow!

  To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
    To the sheep on a thousand hills,
  To the sun that never blisters,
    To the rain that never chills—­
  To the land of the waiting spring-time,
    To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
  To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
    And the children nine and ten!

And the children nine and ten (Stand up!),
  And the life we live and know,
Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about,
If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
  With the weight of a two-fold blow!

  To the far-flung fenceless prairie
    Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
  To our neighbour’s barn in the offing
    And the line of the new-cut rail;
  To the plough in her league-long furrow
    With the gray Lake gulls behind—­
  To the weight of a half-year’s winter
    And the warm wet western wind!

  To the home of the floods and thunder,
    To her pale dry healing blue—­
  To the lift of the great Cape combers,
    And the smell of the baked Karroo. 
  To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head—­
    To the reef and the water-gold,
  To the last and the largest Empire,
    To the map that is half unrolled!

  To our dear dark foster-mothers,
    To the heathen songs they sung—­
  To the heathen speech we babbled
    Ere we came to the white man’s tongue. 
  To the cool of our deep verandas—­
    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!

A health to the Native-torn (Stand up!),
  We’re six white men mow,
All bound to sing o’ the little things we care about,
All bound to fight for the little things we care about
  With the weight of a six-fold blow! 
By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!),
  From the Orkneys to the Horn,
All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by),
All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it),
  A health to the Native-born!