The English soil!—‘ tis hallowed ground:
Its restless children roam
The world, but they have never found
So dear a land as home;
Their passion for its hills and downs
Nor space nor time can spoil;
A golden mist of memory crowns
The good old English soil.
The English race!— its pluck and pith,
Its power to stay and win,—
Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith,
And Coeur de Lion's kin!
Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll,
Who sat in kingly place!
Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all
The good old English race!
The English speech!— the copious tongue,
Terse, vivid, plastic, fit,
Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung,
Which gave us Holy Writ;
Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write,
Which Taylor used, to preach,
And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night —
The good old English speech!
“St. George and Merrie England!” — still
The stirring phrase imparts
Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill
Through more than English hearts.
God save Old England by His grace!
We all alike beseech,
Who know the English soil or race
And speak the English speech.