FROM EXILE

 

They talk about the wonders of a score of distant lands;

Of the monuments of Pharaoh, 'cross the burning desert sands;

They may prate about the glories of the Seven Hills of Rome;

But willingly I'd trade them for another glimpse of Home.

 

I've rubbed shoulders with Armenians, bought experience from Greeks;

Had a Russian steal my money and a Frenchman kiss my cheeks;

Known the flattery of the Spaniards and the Jew's eternal guile;

But they only make me thankful that old England was an isle.

 

I've tasted varied cooking from the garlic-tainted mess

Which nourishes the Dago in his native wilderness,

To the canned abominations of the Yankee - but I'd lief

Give my prospects of salvation for a round of English beef.

 

I've sampled weird decoctions scattered right across the map,

From the vodka of the Russians to the sake of the Jap.

But if I'd the wealth of Croesus and the wisdom of a seer

There's nothing that could woo me from a mug of English beer.

 

I've walked the streets of Cairo, Valparaiso and Bombay,

Combed the dives of Vladivostok and the fleshpots of Marseilles,

There never was a moment, whether flush or whether broke,

That their charms could equal just one smell of London smoke.

 

I've sweated blood in Burma, where the Irrawaddy flows,

And frozen in the bosom of "Our Lady in the Snows",

I've thirsted in Australia till my fevered-tortured brain

Conjured visions of contentment in the splash of English rain.

 

I've stood with eyes uplifted to a wondrous tomb above,

Erected by a tyrant to his wayward light o'love.

But for me it's a country churchyard, near the music of the surf,

'Neath the sweetness of the violets on some fragrant English turf.

George Digby