Things have been mixed up in Europe till there's nothing in a name, So it doesn't really matter whence the Brandenburgers came; But they did no pioneering as our fathers did of old-- Only bullied, robbed and murdered till they bought the land with gold. And they settled down in Prussia to the bane of Germany, With a spike upon the helmet where three brazen balls should be. And they swaggered, swigged and swindled, and by bullying held sway, And they blindly inter-married till they're madmen to this day. And the lovely nights in Munich are as memories of the dead; Night is filled with nameless terrors, day is filled with constant dread. But Bavaria the peaceful, ere the lurid star is set, She shall lead her neighbours on to pluck the Prussian Eagles yet.
We'll pass over little Denmark, as the brave historians can, Austria suffered at Sadowa, France was sorry at Sedan. And for England's acquiescence in the crime she suffers too. Meanwhile Denmark drained her marshes, planted grain and battled through. (We, who never knew what war is--who had gold without the pain-- Never locked a western river that might save a western plain.) You may say the Danes were pirates, and so leave them on the shelf? Given youth and men and money, I would pirate some myself! Why should I be so excited for another nation's pains? I am prejudiced and angry, for my forefathers were Danes. What have I to do with nations? Or the battle's lurid stars?-- I am Henry, son of Peter, who was Peter, son of Lars; Lars the son of Nils--But never mind from whence our lineage springs-- Yes, my forefathers wore helmets, but their helmets wore the wings-- (There's a feather for your bonnet, there is unction for your souls!) And the wings bore us to England, and Australia and the Poles. What did we for little Denmark? Well, we sent our thousands through; But, without the guns or money, what could Scandinavia do? (It is true of some Australians, by the sea or sandwaste lone, That they hold their father's country rather dearer than their own. But the track is plain before them, and they know who blazed the track, To the work our Foreign Fathers did in Early Days, Out Back. As a mate can do no mean thing in the bushman's creed and song, So a fellow's father's country [seems to me] can do no wrong.)
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