Lord, take me back to Blighty,
I so miss her fog-bound shores,
And tire of sun-browned heathens
And their profane, pagan mores.
Aye, home again to Mother England,
Even feet first : in a cask,
I’ve given blood and sweat and tears,
Now need respite from my task.
So long since these feet have trod
Her cold, yet hallowed, ground,
O’er one score years of tropical toil
Without an Autumn’s smell nor sound.
How I pray to see four seasons,
A winter of stark blacks and whites,
A joyous springtime of verdant greens,
And cold, crisp frosty nights.
Yea, respite from this draining, humid heat,
And damned recurring malarial chills,
A return to Civilization’s cradle,
An ‘Adios’ to my tropical ills.
Ah, to walk again the chalky loam,
Countryside’s, to stroll and roam,
With bird life of a fairer song;
Such pastoral days I duly long.
For even heathens in Catholic guise
Will erode the minds of men schooled wise,
Until thee come equal to their ways,
The subtle ploys and corrupt plays,
That bring down all of stalward heart
And wake to find thou are a part
Of that you thought to change and correct :
A victim of the same neglect
That dims the light within a soul,
And slips the leash of spiritual goal.