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Rudyard Kipling - To The City Of Bombay
Work rating: Medium

The Cities are full of pride,
      Challenging each to each —
     This from her mountain-side,
      That from her burthened beach.
 
     They count their ships full tale —
      Their corn and oil and wine,
     Derrick and loom and bale,
      And rampart`s gun-flecked line;
     City by City they hail:
      "Hast aught to match with mine?"
 
     And the men that breed from them
      They traffic up and down,
     But cling to their cities` hem
      As a child to their mother`s gown.
 
     When they talk with the stranger bands,
      Dazed and newly alone;
     When they walk in the stranger lands,
      By roaring streets unknown;
     Blessing her where she stands
      For strength above their own.
 
     (On high to hold her fame
      That stands all fame beyond,
     By oath to back the same,
      Most faithful-foolish-fond;
     Making her mere-breathed name
      Their bond upon their bond.)
 
     So thank I God my birth
      Fell not in isles aside —
     Waste headlands of the earth,
      Or warring tribes untried —
     But that she lent me worth
      And gave me right to pride.
 
     Surely in toil or fray
      Under an alien sky,
     Comfort it is to say:
      "Of no mean city am I!"
 
     (Neither by service nor fee
      Come I to mine estate —
     Mother of Cities to me,
      For I was born in her gate,
     Between the palms and the sea,
      Where the world-end steamers wait.)
 
     Now for this debt I owe,
      And for her far-borne cheer
     Must I make haste and go
      With tribute to her pier.
 
     And she shall touch and remit
      After the use of kings
     (Orderly, ancient, fit)
      My deep-sea plunderings,
     And purchase in all lands.
      And this we do for a sign
     Her power is over mine,
      And mine I hold at her hands!
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