'Blessed be the English and all their ways and works.
Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
'But a palm-tree in full bearing, bowing down, bowing down,
To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown, walled town,
Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome,
And a low moon out of Africa said: 'This way home!''
'Blessed be the English and all that they profess.
Cursed be the Savages that prance in nakedness!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:
'But a well-wheel slowly creaking, going round, going round,
By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground,
Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine,
And a high sun over Asia shouting: 'Rise and shine!''
'Bless'd be the English and everything they own.
Cursed be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie
Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:
'But a desert stretched and stricken, left and right, left and right,
Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light,
A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside,
And a red wind out of Libya roaring: 'Run and hide!''
'Bless'd be the English and all they make or do.
Curs'd be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!'
'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I mean to die
Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:
'But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast,
In a million summits bedding on the last world's past,
A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb,
And, the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!'