A young speaker—probably a British child—calls out to children from distant places: a Sioux, an Eskimo, a Turk, a Japanese child. He imagines the exotic sights they see (scarlet trees, lions) and the strange foods they eat (ostrich eggs, turtle). But his tone isn’t envious; it’s playfully smug. He insists that while their life is “very fine,” it’s not as nice as his. He is safe at home, eats “proper meat,” and doesn’t have to wander. He even guesses that those foreign children must sometimes grow tired of not being able to travel—and secretly wish they were him. The refrain “Oh! don’t you wish that you were me?” lands like a teasing, confident chant. The whole poem creates a light, singsong mood of childish one-upmanship, tinged with the innocence of imperial pride. It’s less mean than it sounds; it’s an imaginative game, a boy revelling in his own comfortable corner of the world. Stevenson captures the voice of a child who feels the world is a storybook, but his own story is the best one.
Foreign Children — Summary
Little Indian, Sioux, or Crow, Little frosty Eskimo, Little Turk or Japanee, Oh! don't you wish that you were me?
You have seen the scarlet trees And the lions over seas; You have eaten ostrich eggs, And turned the turtle off their legs.
Such a life is very fine, But it's not so nice as mine: You must often as you trod, Have wearied NOT to be abroad.
You have curious things to eat, I am fed on proper meat; You must dwell upon the foam, But I am safe and live at home. Little Indian, Sioux or Crow, Little frosty Eskimo, Little Turk or Japanee, Oh! don't you wish that you were me?