The Seven Seas. Rudyard Kipling

      To the hush of the breathless morning

      On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,

      To the haze of the burned back-ranges

      And the dust of the shoeless hoofs —

      To the risk of a death by drowning,

      To the risk of a death by drouth —

      To the men of a million acres,

      To the Sons of the Golden South.

      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 springtime,

      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