Classic Poem

A WAY down south in the Torrid Zone,
North latitude nearly nine,
Where the eight months' pour once past and o'er,
The sun four months doth shine;
Where 'tis eighty-six the year around,
And people rarely agree;
Where the plaintain grows and the hot winds blows,
Lies the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

'Tis the land where all the insects breed
That live by bite and sting;
Where the birds are quite winged rainbows bright,
Tho' seldom one doth sing!
Here radiant flowers and orchids thrive
And bloom perennially —
All beauteous, yes — but odorless!
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

'Tis a land profusely rich, 'tis said,
In mines of yellow gold,
That, of claims bereft, the Spaniards left
In the cruel days of old!
And many a man hath lost his life
That treasure-trove to see,
Or doth agonize with streaming eyes
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree!

'Tis a land that still with potent charm
And wondrous, lasting spell
With mighty thrall enchaineth all
Who long within it dwell;
'Tis a land where the Pale Destroyer waits
And watches eagerly;
'Tis, in truth, but a breath from life to death,
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

Then, go away if you have to go,
Then, go away if you will!
To again return you will always yearn
While the lamp is burning still!
You've drank the Chagres water,
And the mango eaten free,
And, strange tho' it seems, 'twill haunt your dreams —
This Land of the Cocoanut-Tree!