Francis William Lauderdale Adams - Hong-Kong Lyrics lyrics

I AT anchor in that harbour of the island, The Chinese Gate, We lay where, terraced under green-clad highland, The Sea-town sate. Ships, steamers, sailers, many a flag and nation, A motley crew, Junks, sampans, all East's swarming jubilation, I watched and knew. Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling On the boon breeze, The church-bells' chiming echoes rang out, telling Of inland peace. O English Chimes, your music rising and falling I cannot praise, Although to me it come sweet-sad, recalling Dear childish days. Yet, English Chimes — last links of chains that sever, Worn out and done, That Land and Creed that I have left for ever — Ring on, ring on! II There is much in this sea-way City I have not met with before, But one or two things I notice That I seem to have known of yore. In the lovely tropical verdure, In the streets, behold I can The hideous English Buildings And the brutal English Man! III I stand and watch the Soldiers Marching up and down, Above the fresh green Cricket-ground Just outside the town. I stand and watch and wonder When in the English land This poor fool Tommy Atkins Will learn and understand? Zulus, and Boers, and Arabs, All fighting to be free, Men and women and children, Maimed and murdered has he. In India and in Ireland He's held the People down, While the robber English Gentleman Took pound and penny and crown. To make him false to his Order, What was it that they gave — To make him his brother's oppressor? The clothes and soul of a slave! O thou poor fool, Tommy Atkins, Thou wilt be wise that day When, with eager eyes and clenched teeth, Thou risest up to say: 'This is our well-loved England, And I'll free it if I can, From every rotten Shop-keeper, And played-out Gentleman!' IV 'Happy Valley' ('This is the love of Nature, that the same peace awaits us all') There is a valley green that lies 'Mid hills, the summer's bower. The many-coloured bu*terflies Flutter from flower to flower. And round one lush green side of it, In gardened homes are laid, With grief and care compa**ionate, The People of the Dead. There all the voicing summer day They sing, the happy rills. No noisy sound awakes away The echoes of the hills.