In Praise Of England
From tangled brake and trellised bower
Bring every bud that blows,
But never will you find the flower
To match an English rose.
It blooms with more than city grace,
Though rustic and apart;
It has a smile upon its face,
And a dewdrop in its heart.
Though wide the goodly world around
Your fancy may have strayed,
Where was the woman ever found
To match an English maid?
At work she smiles, through play she sings,
She doubts not nor denies;
She'll cling to you as woodbine clings,
And love you till she dies.
If you would put it to the proof,
Then round the zodiac roam;
But never will you find the roof
To match an English home.
You hear the sound of children's feet
Still pattering on the stair:
'Tis made by loving labour sweet,
And sanctified by prayer.
Go traverse tracts sublime or sweet,
Snow-peak or scorched ravine,
But where will you the landscape meet
To match an English scene?
The hamlet hallowed by its spire,
The wildwood fresh with flowers,
Garden and croft and thorp and byre
Gleaming through silvery showers.
Across the wave, along the wind,
Flutter and plough your way,
But where will you a Sceptre find
To match the English Sway?
Its conscience holds the world in awe
With blessing or with ban;
Its Freedom guards the Reign of Law,
And majesty of Man!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Related quotes
Rose, Fall
Rose of many petals that fall at gentle touch,
you cannot match up to my love-who with touch does not fall
Rose of the green stem, who withers when is dry
you cannot match up to my love, who with age, never dries
Rose of thorny flaws, who pricks me at the lips
you cannot match up to my love, whos lips contain no thorns
Rose like any other rose, who with them does not stand out,
you cannot match up to my love, whose beauty stands outloud
Rose of limited colors, who can only bloom one tone
you cannot match up to my love, who blooms of every hue
Rose, who only appeals to eyes, to those who see its beauty
you cannot match up to my love, who appeals to every sense
Rose fall down, and bow to my love-she is the one with grace
Rose wither away to my love, whose beauty outlives yours
Rose turn 'way, when in presence to my love-
for she holds something you dont hold
and that is my steep love
poem by Afrodita Alkline
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A coach can only teach.
A coach is not a match to his players.
Stamina matters.
A teacher cannot match his students;
Memory matters.
A preacher cannot match his disciples;
Staunchness matters.
A husband cannot match his cuckold;
Curiosity matters.
Can a ladder match the climber?
30.09.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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No regret, however you are.
Are you dark? No regret!
The White will never resist you.
Are you a plump? Not to worry!
Steel frame prefers the fatty.
Are you a timid? No anxiety!
Tyrants want such personalities.
Are you a stupid? No remorse!
The clever will find in you recluse.
Are you a rustic? No shyness.
Peasants afford not extravagance.
Are you a dwarf? It is common
that a tall one found a match in a dwarf.
No woman goes without a match
21.07.97
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Rejected
WE wandered down the meadow way--
The path beside the hedge is shady,--
You did not see the silver may,
You talked of Art, my sweet blind Lady.
You talked of values and of tone,
Of square touch and New English crazes;
Could you not see we were alone,
Where God's hand paints the world with daisies?
You spoke of Paris and of Rome
And in the hedgerow's thorny shadows
A white-throat sang a song of home,
Of English lanes and English meadows.
You talked about the aims of Art
And how all Art must needs be moral;
I heard you with a sinking heart
And watched the waving crimson sorrel.
For when I found you had not heard
The song--nor seen the dewy clover,
I cared no more to find the word
Should make you hear and see a lover!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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yes, what if God does not speak english at all?
you were not born yesterday
and probably heard it before
that if your God does not speak english
then he must not be God
of course, something arrogant
hangs in the air
of this effortless superiority that
'englishers'
'english-plongplangs'
clai m, which, of course, we
always oppose and dub
as prettry dumb silly
but anyhow, yes, we are asked again
what if?
what if, this God, does not really speak English?
well, of course, he is still God
and he must not have considered the english language
that important
and i agree, even if i speak it,
i still have this language
of my soul,
albeit, in english, for you,
who does not speak my own language,
yes, of course, for you to perhaps
understand,
but i like it though, this thought
that God does not speak
the english language, lest, he may sound
so englishly, oh well,
arrogant.....
dear God
do you really...not speak english?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Nails Match My Heart
my nails match my heart
'Lost Love' that's what its called
as pal as my nails my heart is
if only i could paint my heart
as easily as i paint my nails
red would be a nice color for the heart
does red match with how it feel
No! 'Lost Love' does
have i ever found love that paints my heart red
will i ever find that love that will slowly paint it
with tender strokes
so perfectly that nothing will ever ruin it
for now 'Lost Love' is the color it will stay
and tomorrow will hopefully be a new day
my nails match my heart
poem by Pilar Guethon
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Forgiven
I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.
I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day ...
And Nanny let my beetle out -
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out -
She went and let my beetle out -
And Beetle ran away.
She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,
She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a match.
She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn't mind,
As there's lots and lots of beetles which she's certain we could find,
If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid -
And we'd get another match-box and write BEETLE on the lid.
We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,
And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,
And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:
'A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!'
It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be Me,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought to say:
'I'm very very sorry that I tried to run away.'
And Nanny's very sorry too for you-know-what-she-did,
And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,
So Nan and Me are friends, because it's difficult to catch
An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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People are always saying, English, English, English rose, and I just feel so completely different.
quote by Kristin Scott Thomas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Match-ball!
Match-ball!
Everywhere;
Match-ball, match, ball, at;
Everywhere!
Miscellaneous,
Cat, hat, hall, ham, call;
Into the clefts of the rocks! !
Holes, moles, ploes, soles;
To the moles and bats!
Exiles,
Exits,
All, mall, tall, mat, bat;
Pastures,
Pictures,
Tab, bam, lam, cam, act, batch;
Kindled,
Justifies!
But, like a flint;
Boles, voles, roles!
At Royal Victoria Place Shopping Centre;
However, it was like a match-ball.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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English is a mixture
English is a mixture
You can see in theatre
English is neither paternal
Nor maternal
No word no grammer
Make english finer
Uniformity english
Make life accomplished.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Uncertain match plays in the ground of Radiation!
The whole World is sick and in the Asylum
Patients were given the Tranquilizers!
And they watch the match with Doctor Confused!
Thank God! The Sea is calm and there won't be any Tsunami?
The head umpire is not certain whether the ball touched the bat
And it's an out?
He's requested the decision from the match Referee.
An Alien comes with a deep cry from a different Planet.
Doctor asked what can I do for you?
'I am a fortune teller' He replied.
'Oh! You came in the right time and is it out? '
'I am not sure.'
'Then who wins the match? '
'That's uncertain.'
'I have a hole in the heart since my childhood and it's very painful
Even the Tetanus scared to approach and finish this sad story.'
Doctor gave him a Morphine injection!
And all is quiet now, match goes on!
I too watch this entertaining game from infinity!
To all the Cricket fans in gratitude!
(Including my friend JVL.)
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Our Own Flag
They mustered us up with a royal din,
In wearisome weeks of drought.
Ere ever half of the crops were in,
Or the half of the sheds cut out.
'Twas down with the saddle and spurs and whip
The swagman dropped his swag.
And we hurried us off to the outbound ship
To fight for the English flag.
The English flag, it is ours in sooth
We stand by it wrong or right.
But deep in our hearts is the honest truth
We fought for the sake of a fight.
And the English flag may flutter and wave
Where the World-wide Oceans toss,
But the flag the Australian dies to save
Is the flag of the Southern Cross.
If ever they want us to stand the brunt
Of a hard-faught, grim campaign,
We will carry our own flag up to the front
When we go to the wars again.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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You Met Your Match
Hey you were good at playing the fox girl
When I was good you threw me a bone
But I aint playing hot for nobody
Girl just you wait til I get you home
Ill show you the way to love somebody
Like youve never ever been shown before
Cause my love lights burning
My whole lifes yearning for you
Hey baby you were playing the part with jimmy and freddie
You tried to make me look like a fool
But I took care of cindy and susie
Just to show you I can be twice as cool baby
If you want to learn how to love me
Ill teach you in my own private school
Cause my love love lights burning
My whole lifes yearning for you
You met you your match
When you play with my affection
You met you your match
When you tried to make me walk the line
When you decided you would hurt me
Thats when your grape feel off the vine
Your mama told me that I better be mellow
She said youre just a baby maybe too green
I told her jimmy, freddie, teddy and victor
They know better
Mama shake off that dream
I told her that you were really cooking
My love is burning for a turn at the steam
Hey, cause
My love lights boiling
My whole lifes yearning for you
You met your match
When you told me you loved me
You met your match
When you told me that you wouldnt let go
You met your match x7
Baby
You met your match x7
Baby
You met your match in me...
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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English Roundabout
(colin moulding)
People rushing round with no time to spare.
Im so dizzy,
Im neither here nor there.
In this traffic jam,
I just want to shout,
Let me off o this english roundabout
English roundabout
And all the the horns go beep! beep!
All the people follow like sheep,
Im full of light and sound,
Making my head go round, round.
Everyone is cursing under their breath,
Im a passenger,
I feel close to death,
Hopeless situation,
I have no doubt.
Stop the madness, english roundabout
English roundabout
And all the cars go brum! brum!
And in my ears I feel a hum,
The neons blind my eyes,
All those tempers rise, rise.
Cars and buses go,
Puffing out their smoke,
Roll my window down,
I begin to choke.
I have had enough,
I just want to get out.
Let me off o this english roundabout.
English roundabout.
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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English Rose
what tender beauty lays before me
I call her my English rose
lips red like petals and as soft
earthen eyes I could sink into
breathless I look on captivated
if only I could bathe in her scent
lay my head upon her bosom
and sleep against the softest skin
how beautiful my English rose
how strong this feeling pines
at my thoughts into my soul
here is a beauty unlike any other
tenderly sweet before my eye
I could hold this picture forever
and forever love my English rose
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Dedication - To K.S.G.
Fair Saxon, in my lover's creed,
My love were smaller than your meed,
And you might justly deem it slight,
As wanting truth as well as sight,
If, in that image which is shrined
Where thoughts are sacred, you could find
A single charm, or more or less,
Than you to all kind eyes possess.
To me, even in the happiest dreams,
Where, flushed with love's just dawning gleams,
My hopes their radiant wings unfurl,
You're but a simple English girl,
No fairer, grace for grace arrayed,
Than many a simple Southern maid;
With faults enough to make the good
Seem sweeter far than else it would;
Frank in your anger and your glee,
And true as English natures be,
Yet not without some maiden art
Which hides a loving English heart.
Still there are moments, brief and bright,
When fancy, by a poet's light,
Beholds you clothed with loftier charms
Than love e'er gave to mortal arms.
A spell is woven on the air
From your brown eyes and golden hair,
And all at once you seem to stand
Before me as your native land,
With all her greatness in your guise,
And all her glory in your eyes;
And sometimes, as if angels sung,
I hear her poets on your tongue.
And, therefore, I, who from a boy
Have felt an almost English joy
In England's undecaying might,
And England's love of truth and right,
Next to my own young country's fame
Holding her honor and her name,
I -- who, though born where not a vale
Hath ever nursed a nightingale,
Have fed my muse with English song
Until her feeble wing grew strong --
Feel, while with all the reverence meet
I lay this volume at your feet,
As if through your dear self I pay,
For many a deep and deathless lay,
For noble lessons nobly taught,
For tears, for laughter, and for thought,
A portion of the mighty debt
We owe to Shakespeare's England yet!
poem by Henry Timrod
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The Flowers
To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic,
almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress,
are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us
like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote;
the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose,
nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April
as the English thrush. -- THE ATHEN]AEUM.
Buy my English posies!
Kent and Surrey may --
Violets of the Undercliff
Wet with Channel spray;
Cowslips from a Devon combe --
Midland furze afire --
Buy my English posies
And I'll sell your heart's desire!
Buy my English posies!
You that scorn the May,
Won't you greet a friend from home
Half the world away?
Green against the draggled drift,
Faint and frail and first --
Buy my Northern blood-root
And I'll know where you were nursed:
Robin down the logging-road whistles, "Come to me!"
Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free;
All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain.
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!
Buy my English posies!
Here's to match your need --
Buy a tuft of royal heath,
Buy a bunch of weed
White as sand of Muysenberg
Spun before the gale --
Buy my heath and lilies
And I'll tell you whence you hail!
Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie --
Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky --
Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain --
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!
Buy my English posies!
You that will not turn --
Buy my hot-wood clematis,
Buy a frond o' fern
Gathered where the Erskine leaps
Down the road to Lorne --
Buy my Christmas creeper
And I'll say where you were born!
West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin --
They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn --
Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main --
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!
Buy my English posies!
Here's your choice unsold!
Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,
Buy the kowhai's gold
Flung for gift on Taupo's face,
Sign that spring is come --
Buy my clinging myrtle
And I'll give you back your home!
Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine --
Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ~ratas~ twine --
Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain --
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!
Buy my English posies!
Ye that have your own
Buy them for a brother's sake
Overseas, alone.
Weed ye trample underfoot
Floods his heart abrim --
Bird ye never heeded,
Oh, she calls his dead to him!
Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;
Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!
Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land --
Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Little Match Girl
It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"
When she left home she had slippers on;
But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.
For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street,
Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet.
So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;
And the child's heart felt cold and downcast,
For nobody had bought any matchea that day,
Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.
Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;
So in a corner between two houses she made bold
To take shelter from the violent storm.
Poor little waif! wishing to herself she'd never been born.
And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home
For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone
Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,
And to go home without pennies she was in dread.
The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;
While the passers-by for her had no care,
As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace,
While the cold wind blew in the match girl's face.
As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,
And no longer her strength could her uphold,
When an idea into her little head came:
She'd strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.
And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly,
And it helped to fill her heart with glee;
And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;
But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!
Her body was found half-covered with snow,
And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;
And many present let fall a burning tear
Because she was found dead on the last night of the year,
In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold -
But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.
But I hope the match girl's in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,
A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Irish Blood, English Heart
Irish blood, English heart
this I'm made of
there is no one on earth
I'm afraid of
and no regime
can buy or sell me
I've been dreaming of a time when
to be English
is not to be baneful
to be standing by the flag not feeling
shameful, racist or partial
Irish blood, English heart
this I'm made of
there is no one on earth
I'm afraid of
and I will die
with both my hands untied
I've been dreaming of a time when
the English are sick to death of Labour
and Tories
and spit upon the name Oliver Cromwell
and denounce this royal line that still
salute him / and will salute him forever
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Luck Of The Irish
Ok, one, two, three, one two, three
If you had the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
A thousand years of torture and hunger,
Drove the people away from their land.
A land full of beauty and wonder
Was raped by the british brigands!
Goddamned!
Goddamned!
If you could keep voices like flowers,
There's be shamrock all over the world.
If you could drink dreams like irish streams,
Then the world would be as high as the mountain of morn.
In the 'pool they told us the story
How the english divided the land.
Of the pain and the death and the glory
And the poets of auld eireland.
If we could make chains with the morning dew,
The world would be like galway bay.
Let's walk over rainbows like leprechauns,
The world would be one big blarney stone.
Why the hell are the english there anyway?
As they kill with god on their side!
Blame it all on the kids and the i.r.a.
As the bastards commit genocide!
Aye! aye!
Genocide!
Okay!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead.
One more time!
You should have the luck of the irish,
You'd be sorry and wish you were dead.
You should have the luck of the irish,
And you'd wish you was english instead,
Hey, yes, you'd wish you were english instead.
- "thank you!
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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