"When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand, With paint on his face and a club in his hand, He was death to feather and fin and fur. He trapped my beavers at Westminster. He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer, He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier. He fought his neighbour with axes and swords, Flint or bronze, at my upper fords, While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin, The tall Phoenician ships stole in, And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay, Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way; And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek."