Song III. - Ye gentle Nymphs and generous Dames
Ye gentle Nymphs and generous Dames,
That rule o'er every British mind!
Be sure ye soothe their amorous flames,
Be sure your laws are not unkind:
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting sighs away;
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.
And cruel 'twere a freeborn swain,
A British youth, should vainly moan;
Who, scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours, and yours alone.
Nor pointed spear, nor links of steel,
Could e'er those gallant minds subdue,
Who Beauty's wounds with pleasure feel,
And boast the fetters wrought by you.
poem by William Shenstone
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Related quotes
Sonnet: ‘Happy Birthday, Dear Mahatma Gandhiji!
A foreign-trained Indian and bar-at-law,
Spear-headed freedom struggle for his land;
His methods followed held the world in awe;
He won us freedom with his magic wand!
To fight the British Raj was not a joke!
Non-violence, Satyagraha had both worked;
The half-dressed Gandhi did not even smoke;
The white man's strategy was annulled, jerked!
The man became the Father of the soil,
And sacrificed his life to gain freedom;
The secrets were his faith in God and toil,
That wrought the miracle that's seen seldom!
Hats off to Gandhi who a legend turned;
The British rule, he successfully spurned!
poem by John Celes
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Indian Mutiniy
British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother's bosom torn
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.
But the British Lion he soon o'erthrew
Both the high and the low Hindoo ;
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws.
poem by James McIntyre
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Sea Ballad - From
“HOW many?” said our good Captain.
“Twenty sail and more.”
We were homeward bound,
Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore.
Right athwart our tack,
The foe came thick and black,
Like Hell-birds and foul weather—you might count them by the score.
The Betsy Jane did slack
To see the game in view.
They knew the Union-Jack,
And the tyrant’s flag we knew!
Our Captain shouted “Clear the decks!” and the Bo’sun’s whistle blew.
Then our gallant Captain,
With his hand he seiz’d the wheel,
And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe.
“Hurray, lads, in we go!”
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
“There are twenty sail,” sang he,
“But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea!”
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
“See you ugly craft
With the pennon at her main!
Hurrah, my merry boys,
There goes the Betsy Jane!”
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound;
And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea.
“Port and starboard!” cried our Captain;
“Pay it in, my hearts!” sang he.
“We ’re old England’s sons,
And we ’ll fight for her to-day!”
(You should hear the British cheer.
Fore and aft.)
“Fire away!”
In she runs,
And her guns
Thunder round.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Cruel Young Lover
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Just because you can
You treat me like a fool
But just because you can
Dont make it right
Can it be so hard
To be a little kind
And you could be here
With me tonight
Ive got feelings
Dont be unkind
Feelings
Dont be unkind
Feelings
Stay with me tonight
Youve been stealing
Thats so unkind
Stealing
A heart, a mind
Stealing
Stay with me tonight
Cruel young lover
Blow your mind out
Time will come when
You will find out
Time will take your cruel power away
Cruel young lover
Try to stand out
Will it always pay
To bland out?
Time will take your cruel power away
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Once again youre gone
Somewhere in the night
Disappearing
Leaving me alone
The lure of city streets
The pull of unknown souls
The overpowering draw
Of the unknown
Youve been stealing
Thats so unkind
Stealing
A heart, a mind
Im appealing
Stay with me tonight
Cruel young lover
Hit the action
Can you live on your attraction
Time may take your cruel power away
Cruel young lover
Try to stand out
Will it always pay
To bland out?
Time will take your cruel power away
Cruel young lover
Ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Ah ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah ah
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Ah ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah ah
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Ah ah ah ah ah
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Thats so unkind
Cruel young lover
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Ah ah ah ah ah
Cruel young lover
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Thats so unkind
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Thats so unkind
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cruel young lover
Cruel young lover
Do you hear me?
Thief
Do you hear me?
Thief
Do you hear me?
Thats so unkind
Thats so unkind
song performed by by Human League
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't enjoy British shows as a rule because British audiences are strange.
quote by Andrew Eldritch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On A Horn
The joy of man, the pride of brutes,
Domestic subject for disputes,
Of plenty thou the emblem fair,
Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care!
I saw thee raised to high renown,
Supporting half the British crown;
And often have I seen thee grace
The chaste Diana's infant face;
And whensoe'er you please to shine,
Less useful is her light than thine:
Thy numerous fingers know their way,
And oft in Celia's tresses play.
To place thee in another view,
I'll show the world strange things and true;
What lords and dames of high degree
May justly claim their birth from thee!
The soul of man with spleen you vex;
Of spleen you cure the female sex.
Thee for a gift the courtier sends
With pleasure to his special friends:
He gives, and with a generous pride,
Contrives all means the gift to hide:
Nor oft can the receiver know,
Whether he has the gift or no.
On airy wings you take your flight,
And fly unseen both day and night;
Conceal your form with various tricks;
And few know how or where you fix:
Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast
That they to others give thee most.
Meantime, the wise a question start,
If thou a real being art;
Or but a creature of the brain,
That gives imaginary pain?
But the sly giver better knows thee;
Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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The Bush Aboon Traquair
Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.
That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flies the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.
Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh, make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Wars In Queen Victorias Reign
We will now sing in thoughtful strain
Of wars in Queen Victoria's reign,
The Russian Bear did ages lurk
All ready for to spring on Turk,
For Russian Statesmen did divine
That they should conquer Constantine;
But like a Grey hound after Hare,
The Lion did drive back the Bear,
And made it feel the British rule,
At gates of strong Sebastapool,
Then insolent was Persia,
Till Lion had to dictate law;
And while engaged in scenes like these,
He was attacked by the Chinese.
And for this outrage all so wanton
He then resolved to seize on Canton,
But soon there came a dismal cry
Of slaughtered Britons from Delhi;
The Bengal Tiger, sick with gore,
Did tremble at the Lion's roar,
But Briton's got a serious shock
By losing of brave Havelock,
But Campbell, 'mid a numerous foe,
Full quick these armied hordes did o'erthrow
In Abyssinian dungeons vile
Lay captives of Great Britain's Isle,
But soon the tyrant Theodore
Lay sadly weltering in his gore.
The savage tribes of Ashanteee
From British troops did quickly flee.
In Afgan and Zulu wars
Many did find their deadly scars.
In the land of the Pharaohs
The Christians suffered cruel woes,
Till in Alexandria Bay
The British iron clads did display
The mighty power they did wield,
While their steel sides from harm did shield
And British army on the land
Marched bravely o'er the burning sand,
And Arabi found 'twas useless labor
His strong trench of Tel-el-Kebir.
Egyptians did not wish to feel
In their breast cold British steel.
Their great power was soon laid low
And Wolseley entered Grand Cairo.
Egyptians now no more revile
The Christians on the Banks of Nile.
We here have sung three heroes' names,
Havelock from the land of Thames,
And Campbell from the banks of Clyde,
And Wolseley from Liffey's side.
When rose, thistle, shamrock unite;
They do prove victors in the fight.
Now Britain once more does command
Respect alike on sea and land.
But now may wars forever cease
And mankind ever live in peace.
poem by James McIntyre
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Slender's Ghost
Vide Shakspeare.
Beneath a churchyard yew,
Decay'd and worn with age,
At dusk of eve methought I spied
Poor Slender's Ghost, that whimpering cried,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
Ye gentle Bards! give ear,
Who talk of amorous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose,
Come learn of me to weep your woes:
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?
I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fired my breast or pierced my heart,
But sigh'd, 'O sweet Anne Page!'
And you! whose lovesick minds
No med'cine can assuage,
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
And ye! whose souls are held,
Like linnets in a cage;
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend and imitate my strains;
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
And you! who boast or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage,
Of wounds received from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do, when I sigh,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
Hence every fond conceit
Of shepherd or of sage;
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
Expresses all you have to say,
'O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!'
poem by William Shenstone
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Prisoner
`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?'
`It was my master,' said the prisoner.
`I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power,
and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king.
When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that was for my lord,
and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.'
`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?'
`It was I,' said the prisoner, `who forged this chain very carefully.
I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive
leaving me in a freedom undisturbed.
Thus night and day I worked at the chain
with huge fires and cruel hard strokes.
When at last the work was done
and the links were complete and unbreakable,
I found that it held me in its grip.'
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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To Henry
Think not, while fairer nymphs invite
Thy feet, dear youth, to Pleasure's bowers,
My faded form shall meet thy sight,
And cloud my Henry's smiling hours.
Thou art the world's delighted guest,
And all that pride desires is thine;
Then I'll not wound thy generous breast,
By numbering o'er the woes of mine.
I will not say how well, how long
This faithful heart has sighed for thee;
But leave thee happier nymphs among,
Content if thou contented be.
But, Henry, should Misfortune's hand
Bid all thy youth's fond triumphs fly,
The crimson from thy lip command,
And force the lustre from thine eye,....
Then, thoughtless of my own distress,
I'll haste thy comforter to prove;
And Henry shall my friendship bless,
Although, alas! he scorns my love.
poem by Amelia Opie
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A Woman's Honour
Love bade me hope, and I obeyed;
Phyllis continued still unkind:
Then you may e'en despair, he said,
In vain I strive to change her mind.
Honour's got in, and keeps her heart,
Durst he but venture once abroad,
In my own right I'd take your part,
And show myself the mightier God.
This huffing Honour domineers
In breasts alone where he has place:
But if true generous Love apppears,
The hector dares not show his face.
Let me still languish and complain,
Be most unhumanly denied:
I have some pleasure in my pain,
She can have none with all her pride.
I fall a sacrifice to Love,
She lives a wretch for Honour's sake;
Whose tyrant does most cruel prove,
The difference is not hard to make.
Consider real Honour then,
You'll find hers cannot be the same;
'Tis noble confidence in men,
In women, mean, mistrustful shame.
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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Fly Not Yet
Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, --
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, --
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?
poem by Thomas Moore
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Born To Rule
Lay down your arms this night
Surrender to the power
Embracing your metal heart
On your final walk through the snow
A hammer made of steel
From the river of blood
With magic, forged in flames
Delusions, a curse of the damned
What do you see?
Imaginary visions or reality
When you're free
Then you'll see that you are bound to rule
Rule - Born - Rule
We were Born to Rule
Rule - Born - Rule
We were Born to Rule
Born to Rule - Born to Rule
We're Born to Rule forever more
Born to Rule - Born to Rule
We're Born to Rule forever
The revolution forced us all to heed the final call
And if tomorrow never comes
Then we will strike the hammer down
Rule - Born - Rule
We were Born to Rule
Rule - Born - Rule
We were Born to Rule
Born to Rule - Born to Rule
We're Born to Rule forever more
Born to Rule - Born to Rule
We're Born to Rule forever
Forever, forever Rule!
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The British Way Of Life
The British people have a good sense of humour
They like to strive on gossip and rumours
I like the British way of life
It can be stressful at times but they don’t dwell on strife
Britain is a country of multi-culture
People from all countries came to the UK for a better future
The British culture is embraced all over
Once ago the UK was the world shaker and mover
English people like to have a party
They will drink and get drunk
But they are generous and like to give money to fight poverty
The UK is a fun loving nation
They embrace multi culturism
But some ethnic group don’t do integration
poem by Clifton Cameron
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Once, when a British Prime Minister sneezed, men half a world away would blow their noses. Now when a British Prime Minister sneezes nobody else will even say 'Bless You'.
quote by Bernard Levin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Great Three
At one time when the country was ruled by creul british
there came the Tremendous three
who were on mission to make our country free
they distributed templates
to stop their mission
the british called simon commission
they knew it was test of the best
against simon they made protest
but it proved them costly
as their leader was beaten by sticks
furious by their behaviour
it was time to teach british lesson
The officer guilty deserved the punishment
it was justice
After some days
once again the british at its creulity
for their pleasure
they were going with train of treasure
the Revolutionaries decide to do justice
they steal the train
The british pass bill
which made sure that the farmers will not get justice
it was test of best
as they protest
in the Assembly they throw bomb
the british catch the tremendous three
the punishment they get is hanged till death
but fear is stranger to them
as they happily hang themselves
and they still say
long live the revolution
vande mataram
I proud to be indian
poem by Rohan Bendre
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The Capture of Havana
'Twas in the year 1762 that France and Spain
Resolved, allied together, to crush Britain;
But the British Army sailed from England in May,
And arrived off Havana without any delay.
And the British Army resolved to operate on land,
And the appearance of the British troops were really grand;
And by the Earl of Albemarle the British troops were commanded,
All eager for to fight as soon as they were landed.
Arduous and trying was the work the British had to do,
Yet with a hearty goodwill they to it flew;
While the tropical sun on them blazed down,
But the poor soldiers wrought hard and didn't frown.
The bombardment was opened on the 30th of June,
And from the British battleships a fierce cannonade did boom;
And continued from six in the morning till two o'clock in the afternoon,
And with grief the French and Spaniards sullenly did gloom.
And by the 26th of July the guns of Fort Moro were destroyed,
And the French and Spaniards were greatly annoyed;
Because the British troops entered the Fort without dismay,
And drove them from it at the bayonet charge without delay.
But for the safety of the city the Governor organised a night attack,
Thinking to repulse the British and drive them back;
And with fifteen hundred militia he did the British attack,
But the British trench guards soon drove them back.
Then the Spandiards were charged and driven down the hill,
At the point of the bayonet sore against their will;
And they rushed to their boats, the only refuge they could find,
Leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind.
Then Lieutenant Forbes, at the head of his men,
Swept round the ramparts driving all before them;
And with levelled bayonets they drove them to and fro,
Then the British flag was hoisted over the bastions of Moro.
Then the Governor of the castle fell fighting sword in hand,
While rallying his men around the flagstaff the scene was grand;
And the Spaniards fought hard to save their ships of war,
But the British destroyed their ships and scattered them afar.
And every man in the Moro Fort was bayonet or shot,
Which in Spanish history will never be forgot;
And on the 10th of August Lord Albemarle sent a flag of truce,
And summoned the Governor to surrender, but he seemed to refuse.
Then from the batteries the British opened a terrific fire,
And the Spaniards from their guns were forced to retire,
Because no longer could they the city defend;
Then the firing ceased and hostilities were at an end.
Then the city of Havana surrendered unconditionally,
And terms were settled, and the harbour, forts, and city,
With a district of one hundred miles to the westward,
And loads of gold and silver were the British troops' reward.
And all other valuable property was brought to London,
The spoils that the British Army had won;
And it was conveyed in grand procession to the Tower of London,
And the Londoners applauded the British for the honours they had won.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Elegy XVI. He Suggests the Advantage of Birth To a Person of Merit
When genius, graced with lineal splendour, glows,
When title shines, with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flowery pomp it shows,
The pride, the perfume, of the regions round.
Then learn, ye Fair! to soften splendour's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temperate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.
Pity the sandall'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull applause of vulgar joy,
He mourns his lot; he wishes, merits fame.
In vain to groves and pathless vales we fly;
Ambition there the bowery haunt invades;
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,
But gleam still lovely through the chequer'd shades.
Vainly, to guard from Love's unequal chain,
Has Fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should --'s eyes illume the desert plain,
Even I may wonder, and even I must love.
Not unregarded sighs the lowly hind;
Though you contemn, the gods respect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the scornful mind,
And vengeance, too severe! the gods allow.
On Sarum's plain I met a wandering fair;
The look of sorrow, lovely still, she bore;
Loose flow'd the soft redundance of her hair,
And on her brow a flowery wreath she wore.
Oft stooping as she stray'd, she cull'd the pride
Of every plain; she pillaged every grove!
The fading chaplet daily she supplied,
And still her hand some various garland wove.
Erroneous Fancy shaped her wild attire:
From Bethlem's walls the poor lymphatic stray'd;
Seem'd with her air, her accent, to conspire,
When, as wild Fancy taught her, thus she said:
'Hear me, dear Youth! oh, bear an hapless maid,
Sprung from the scepter'd line of ancient kings!
Scorn'd by the world, I ask thy tender aid;
Thy gentle voice shall whisper kinder things.
'The world is frantic-fly the race profane-.
Nor I, nor you, shall its compassion move:
Come, friendly let us wander and complain;
And tell me, Shepherd! hast thou seen my love?
'My love is young-but other loves are young;
And other loves are fair, and so is mine;
An air divine discloses whence he sprung;
He is my love, who boasts that air divine.
'No vulgar Damon robs me of my rest;
Ianthe listens to no vulgar vow;
A prince, from gods descended, fires her breast;
A brilliant crown distinguishes his brow.
'What! shall I stain the glories of my race,
More clear, more lovely bright, than Hesper's beam?
The porcelain pure with vulgar dirt debase?
Or mix with puddle the pellucid stream?
'See through these veins the sapphire current shine!
'Twas Jove's own nectar gave th' ethereal hue:
Can base plebeian forms contend with mine,
Display the lovely white, or match the blue?
'The painter strove to trace its azure ray;
He changed his colours, and in vain he strove:
He frown'd-I, smiling, view'd the faint essay:
Poor youth! he little knew it flow'd from Jove.
'Pitying his toil, the wondrous truth I told,
How amorous Jove trepann'd a mortal fair;
How through the race the generous current roll'd,
And mocks the poet's art and painter's care.
'Yes, from the gods, from earliest Saturn, sprung
Our sacred race, through demi-gods convey'd,
And he, allied to Phœbus, ever young,
My godlike boy! must wed their duteous maid.
'Oft, when a mortal vow profanes my ear,
My sire's dread fury murmurs through the sky;
And should I yield-his instant rage appears;
He darts th' uplifted vengeance-and I die.
'Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll?
Have you not seen more horrid lightnings glare?
'Twas then a vulgar love ensnared my soul;
'Twas then-I hardly 'scaped the fatal snare.
''Twas then a peasant pour'd his amorous vow,
All as I listen'd to his vulgar strain;-
Yet such his beauty-would my birth allow,
Dear were the youth, and blissful were the plain.
'But, oh, I faint! why wastes my vernal bloom,
In fruitless searches ever doom'd to rove?
My nightly dreams the toilsome path resume,
And I shall die-before I find my love.
'When last I slept, methought my ravish'd eye
On distant heaths his radiant form survey'd;
Though night's thick clouds encompass'd all the sky,
The gems that bound his brow dispell'd the shade.
'O how this bosom kindled at the sight!
Led by their beams I urged the pleasing chase,
Till, on a sudden, these withheld their light-
All, all things envy the sublime embrace.
'But now no more-Behind the distant grove
Wanders my destined youth, and chides my stay:
See, see! he grasps the steel-Forbear, my Love-
Ianthe comes; thy princess hastes away.'
Scornful she spoke, and, heedless of reply,
The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain,
The piteous victim of an angry sky!
Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain.
poem by William Shenstone
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When I was in England doing Romeo and Juliet as a child star, I was interviewed by the British press, who are even more vicious and cruel than the Americans. So I have been extremely guarded ever since.
quote by Claire Bloom
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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