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36
THE FIVE NATIONS
Asleep amid the yuccas
The city takes her ease—
Till twilight brings the land-wind
To our clicking jalousies.
Day long the diamond weather,
The high, unaltered blue—
The smell of goats and incense
And the mule-bells tinkling through.
Day long the warder ocean
That keeps us from our kin,
And once a month our levee
When the English mail comes in.
You'll find us up and waiting
To treat you at the bar;
You'll find us less exclusive
Than the average English are.
We'll meet you with our carriage,
Too glad to show you round.
But—we do not lunch on steamers,
For they are English ground.
