The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind, But he does not talk my talk– I cannot feel his mind. I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind.
The men of my own stock, They may do ill or well, But they tell the lies I am wanted to, They are used to the lies I tell; And we do not need interpreters When we go to buy or sell.
The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good, But I cannot tell what powers control– What reasons sway his mood; Nor when the Gods of his far-off land Shall repossess his blood.
The men of my own stock, Bitter bad they may be, But, at least, they hear the things I hear, And see the things I see; And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.
This was my father’s belief And this is also mine: Let the corn be all one sheaf– And the grapes be all one vine, Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine.
Now, this is the cup the White Men drink When they go to right a wrong, And that is the cup of the old world’s hate– Cruel and strained and strong. We have drunk that cup—and a bitter, bitter cup And tossed the dregs away. But well for the world when the White Men drink To the dawn of the White Man’s day!
Now, this is the road that the White Men tread When they go to clean a land– Iron underfoot and levin overhead And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road—and a wet and windy road Our chosen star for guide. Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread Their highway side by side!
Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold When they build their homes afar– “Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons And, failing freedom, War. ” We have proved our faith—bear witness to our faith, Dear souls of freemen slain! Oh, well for the world when the White Men join To prove their faith again!