I learnt the language of the birds, A new St. Francis I would be; But, when I understood their words — The birds were preaching unto me. - Victor Daley

The Missionary labours With zeal, and pious art,
And rice, and cabin biscuit, In hope to change his heart;And dear old British ladies The Lord would fain cajole,
And humbly crave that He will save This poor old savage soul.

There's rest and peace in plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;
The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;
The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me ...
But please the Lord, on Monday morn, I'm leaving Arcady.

When I hear a politician Speak of honours and position,
And the time to come when he will sit on high, Then I feel a sovran pity For this species of banditti,
Raising trouble while the golden time goes by.