The British are a chilly race.
The Englishman is thin and tall;
He screws an eyeglass in his face,
And talks with a reluctant drawl.
‘ Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!
By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!’
The Englishwoman ev'rywhere
A meed of admiration wins;
She has a crown of silken hair,
And quite the loveliest of skins.
( Go forth and seek an English maid,
Your trouble will be well repaid. )
Where Britain's banner is unfurled
There's room for nothing else beside,
She owns one-quarter of the world,
And still she is not satisfied.
The Briton thinks himself, by birth,
To be the lord of all the earth.
Some call his manners wanting, or
His sense of humour poor, and yet
Whatever he is striving for
He as a rule contrives to get;
His methods may be much to blame,
But he arrives there just the same.
If you can get your wish, you bet it
Does n't much matter how you get it!