The Younger Son

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
   Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There’s a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
   And will greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he’s your younger brother, the one you sent away
   Because there was not room for him at home;
And now he’s quite contented, and he’s glad he did not stay,
   And he’s building Britain’s greatness behind foam…

You’ve a brother in the army, you’ve another in the Church;
   One of you is a diplomatic swell;
You’ve had the pick of everything and left him in a lurch,
   And yet I think he’s doing very well.
For sure his life is happy, and he doesn’t envy yours;
   I know he loves the land his pluck has won;
And I fancy in the years unborn, while England’s fame endures,
   She will come to bless with pride – The Younger Son.