The Song of the Sons by Rudyard Kipling

One from the ends of the earth -- gifts at an open door -- / Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more! / From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed, / Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed! / Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude? / Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?

Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in -- / We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. / Not in the dark do we fight -- haggle and flout and gibe; / Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. / Gifts have we only to-day -- Love without promise or fee -- / Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!