Over the Sea, where our kinsfolk dwell
In cities built of their golden gain,
By Maori lakes, by the South Sea’s swell,

In the Austral bush, or on station plain.
However the elders may fume and complain,
The children are singing, and shouting with glee,
In Shakespeare's tongue—to the gay refrain

Of old English pastimes—over the Sea.

Ve who hold forth in your clubs in Pall Mall,

Or squabble o& nights in the Parliament's fane,

O! dull Legislators, so anxious to tell
How to bind these lands in this bountiful reign.
Hark to these voices across the main!

Grey Sophists be still—you will never agree:
But the bonny young bairns may be weaving a chain

To link us at Home to those over the Sea.

They can unite us; aye! firmly and well,
In the bonds of a love that should ever vemain—
The youngsters who vomp in a sweet English dell,
Or rouse the Bush echoes again and again.
They are our Law-givers honest and sane!
Ve, then, who pray that our Flag may fy free,
That England's proud might may ne'er weaken and wane
List to the little ones—over the Sea!

Ewvot.

The lesson is nigh us. O! do not disdain
Our wise little Solons, wherever they be—
They will unite us. So heed ye the strain
Of the children at Home—and those over the Sea.