(After Horace)Let others praise, as fancy wills, Berlin beneath her trees,
Or Rome upon her seven hills, Or Venice by her seas;
Stamboul by double tides embraced,
Or green Damascus in the waste.
For me there's nought I would not leave For the good Devon land,
Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve Bedewed with spray-drift stand,
And hardly bear the red fruit
That shall be next year's cider-cup.
You too, my friend, may wisely mark How clear skies follow rain,
And, lingering in your own green park Or drilled on Laffan's Plain,
Forget not with the festal
To soothe at times your weary soul.
When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe Good-bye for many a day,
And some were sad and feared to go, And some that dared not stay,
Be sure he bade them broach the best,
And raised his tankard with the rest."Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake For promised lands of gold!
Brave lads, whatever storms may break, We've weathered worse of old!
To-night the loving-cup we'll drain,
To-morrow for the Spanish Main!"
