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    by Rudyard Kipling
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    To the City of Bombay

    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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