'They are slipping down the Channel they are working down the Bay, The keels that hear the mothers' sons, for whom the mothers pray. From Solent and from Humber, from Mersey, Thames and Clyde, The mothers' sons of England go out on every tide.
By all the ocean zateways,- where the i light-copped headlands tower, 'The ships that take the mothers' sons are sighted every hour.
They are ploughing round the Forties, they are beating through the Horn, They are gliding over glassy seax, to greet the golden morn.
And some are fighting for the line, some go to wield the pen, Within the pickets others trade, but all are fighting men, Wearing badge of every service—wearing none, it's much the same—Even though they never know it, they are playing England's game.
And while the sons go trooping forth, to find, to take, to share The White Man's Burden that we know have they no load to bear 7 1
Who choke their sobs; nnd say farewvel and bide at homeland long—Who bore the sons of England—the mothers of the strong They bore with pain and travail, they nursed upon their knees The men who rule in many lands, the lords of all the seas.
They have learnt to bear their partings—when the time has come they know. For last born follows first born on the way they have to go.
What of the mothers' burden, what of their sacrifice?
Can ye buy their love for a bauble, can ye pay their tears with a price?
For as much as the white man's burden is borne by the sons they bare, Unto them let it be counted, they carry their own full share, And what of the plighted maidens, what of the new-wed wives, Who yo on every outbound ship to share the driven lives, Some wooed and wedded on English soil, some wed on native ground, And the wan-faced women, who journey home, what of the Homeyrard Bound?
Brief are their joys and little their mirth in the hiring endless days, hey spend their strength in the unbought toil, that: earns small meed of praise. They have given their yo h to the ssping years, they given the light of their eyes.
And motherhood's joys are bitter for parting is sacrifice.
Well-loved strong-souled singer, whose voice sounds from afar Yo the last, lerist, loneliest island where the burdon bearers are Who sang the song wf the swaddled lives beyond the purdah's hem, Master, these are thy kindred, hast thou ho word for them Secunderabad, Decean, 22nd May...
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.