I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall, I have none other home than this, nor any life at all. Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done; Here where my dearest dead are laid—my wife—my wife and son; Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love, Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?
For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice. What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze— The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?
You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on, Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!
You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines. You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but—will you e'er forget The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?
Let me work here for Britain's sake—at any task you will— A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill. Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep, Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.
Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home! I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome? Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know. I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!