England
ENGLAND, England, England,
Girdled by ocean and skies,
And the power of a world, and the heart of a race,
And a hope that never dies.
England, England, England,
Wherever a true heart beats,
Wherever the rivers of commerce flow,
Wherever the bugles of conquest blow,
Wherever the glories of liberty grow,
'Tis the name that the world repeats.
And ye, who dwell in the shadow
Of the century-sculptured piles,
Where sleep our century-honoured dead,
Whilst the great world thunders overhead,
And far out, miles on miles,
Beyond the smoke of the mighty town,
The blue Thames dimples and smiles;
Not yours alone the glory of old,
Of the splendid thousand years,
Of Britain's might and Britain's right
And the brunt of British spears.
Not yours alone, for the great world round,
Ready to dare and do,
Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane,
With the Northman's sinew and heart and brain,
And the Northman's courage for blessing or bane,
Are England's heroes too.
North and south and east and west,
Wherever their triumphs be,
Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle,
Where the heather blooms and the roses smile,
With the green isle under her lee.
And if ever the smoke of an alien gun
Should threaten her iron repose,
Shoulder to shoulder against the world,
Face to face with her foes,
Scot, and Celt and Saxon are one
Where the glory of England goes.
And we of the newer and vaster West,
Where the great war-banners are furled,
And commerce hurries her teeming hosts,
And the cannon are silent along our coasts,
Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim
A part in the glory and pride and aim
Of the Empire that girdles the world.
England, England, England,
Wherever the daring heart
By Arctic floe or torrid strand
Thy heroes play their part;
For as long as conquest holds the earth,
Or commerce sweeps the sea,
By orient jungle or western plain
Will the Saxon spirit be:
And whatever the people that dwell beneath,
Or whatever the alien tongue,
Over the freedom and peace of the world
Is the flag of England flung,
Till the last great freedom is found,
And the last great truth be taught,
Till the last great deed be done,
And the last great battle is fought;
Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight,
And the war-wolf is dead in his den–
England, breeder of hope and valour and might,
Iron mother of men.
Yea, England, England, England,
Till honour and valour are dead,
Till the world's great cannons rust,
Till the world's great hopes are dust,
Till faith and freedom be fled,
Till wisdom and justice have passed
To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast,
Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust,
To all that is best in the world's unrest,
In heart and mind you are wed.
While out from the Indian jungle
To the far Canadian snows,
Over the East and over the West,
Over the worst and over the best,
The flag of the world to its winds unfurled,
The blood-red ensign blows.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Related quotes
Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Ripoff
I don't wanna be no traitor to the cause
But England is a luxury - not many can afford
There's people going under - it's getting out of hand
Whatever happened to our - our green and pleasant land?
It turned into a wilderness; it turned into a third world country
Most people ain't getting what they pay for
Some people gettin' more than they should be
I know, I know - I'm an alien - but what are you gonna do
I wanna live in England - but it gets to you
It gets to you, it gets to you, it gets to you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
What do you do when you find out?
Where do you go if you leave?
There's no place like home - that's what they say
And that's what you always believed
Someday you might win the Lottery
Someday you might win the Pools
But that's all you've got - that's all you've got
- to live for, to live for
That's all you've got - that's all you've got -
to live for, to live for (yeah)
To be or not to be - that's the question
Oh what's it gonna be?
I'd love to live in England - but it gets to me
it gets to me, it gets to me, yeah it gets to me
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
Oh I really don't know why - England wants to rip off
England wants to rip off , England wants to rip o
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Last Post
THE day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
These are gone where all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with God's own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed!
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Over the camps of her beaten foe --
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O sad in her sacrificial dead!
Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this kindly earth --
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
That her Name as a sun among stars might glow,
Till the dusk of time, with honour and worth:
That stung by lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread,
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it, and thus they died;
So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread,
For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Though you break the heart of her beaten foe,
Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother,
Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Hands All Round
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man’s the best Cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom’s oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day;
That man’s the true Conservative
Who lops the moulder’d branch away.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
To all the loyal hearts who long
To keep our English Empire whole!
To all our noble sons, the strong
New England of the Southern Pole!
To England under Indian skies,
To those dark millions of her realm!
To Canada whom we love and prize,
Whatever statesman hold the helm.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great name of England drink, my friends,
And all her glorious empire, round and round.
To all our statesmen so they be
True leaders of the land’s desire!
To both our Houses, may they see
Beyond the borough and the shire!
We sail’d wherever ship could sail,
We founded many a mighty state;
Pray God our greatness may not fail
Thro’ craven fears of being great.
Hands all round!
God the traitor’s hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Trafalgar Day
LAURELS, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,
Till England's boughs are bare of leaves!
Soon comes the flower more rare, more dear
Than any laurel this year weaves--
The Aloe of the hundredth year
Since from the smoke of Trafalgar
He passed to where the heroes are,
Nelson, who passed and yet is here,
Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,
Whose memory mans our fleet.
Laurels, bring laurels, since they hold
His England's tears in each green fold,
His England's joy, his England's pride,
His England's glories manifold.
Yet what was Victory since he died?
And what was Death since he lives yet,
Above a Nation's worship set,
Above her heroes glorified?--
Nelson, who made our flag a star
To lead where Victories are!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Home Thoughts from Abroad
April in England–daffodils are growing
By every wayside, golden, tall and fair;
April–and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of springtime through the sunny air.
April in England–God, that we were there!
April in England–and her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April–we hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar;
April in England–shall we see it more?
April in England–there's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows where the cowslip gleams;
April–and little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams;
April in England–how the shrapnel screams!
April in England–blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, men in agony.
April–full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England–God, keep England free!
poem by Norah M. Holland
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The Men Who Man Our Batteries
The men who man our batteries,
The men who serve our guns,
They need not honeyed flatteries,
For they are Britain's sons!
They go, when Duty speeds them,
Wherever bullets fly;
Wherever England needs them,
When Duty bids, they die.
The men who man our strongholds,
Or march to yonder field
Where Valour against Wrong holds
A realm that scorns to yield,
From Chiltern Hills or Grampians
May pour their living tide,
But all are England's champions
And all are England's pride.
And, lo! how the abhorrence
Of sceptred crime can join
The Thames and the St. Lawrence,
The Liffey and the Boyne.
For England need but ask aid
Where'er her branches grow,
And like a leaping cascade
It thunders on the foe.
Our cheery sailors, lapt in
The maiden sea's light sleep,
From commodore and captain
To all who man the deep,
They hear around their bed nought
But echoes of their fame,
And well they man the Dreadnought
Who dread not aught but shame.
And whether calmly harboured,
Or when the rocking State
Lurches to port and starboard,
They sail the seas of Fate;
With everlasting laughter
They luff to wind and rain,
Aforetime and hereafter
The men who man the main.
The men who man Great Britain,
And fight for royal George,
On battle's anvil smitten
Leap mightier from the forge:
Like oaks in Orkney's rough spring
They flourish torn and blown,
For all are Honour's offspring
And all are England's own.
The men who man this nation,
And sow her fame abroad,
They ask not acclamation,
They need not England's laud;
And when too late it finds them,
And falls on lifeless ears,
Where yon red tempest blinds them
They need but England's tears.
Yet, while the storm grows vaster
Around them and above,
In triumph or disaster
They shall not lack our love --
They who to Glory's fanning
This streamer have unfurled,
The men whose joy is manning,
The men who man the world!
poem by William Watson
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Sir Richard's Song
(A. D. 1066)
I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over--
But now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner--
But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen City,
A nimble and naughty' page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my comrades in camp and highway
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way--
Tell them England hath taken me!
Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamed--
Seeing England hath taken me!
Howso great man's strength be reckoned,
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second-
And Love in England hath taken me!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Pageant of Elizabeth
Written for "The Pageant of Parliament," 1934
Like Princes crowned they bore them--
Like Demi-Gods they wrought,
When the New World lay before them
In headlong fact and thought.
Fate and their foemen proved them
Above all meed of praise,
And Gloriana loved them,
And Shakespeare wrote them plays!
. . . . . . .
Now Valour, Youth, and Life's delight break forth
In flames of wondrous deed, and thought sublime---
Lightly to mould new worlds or lightly loose
Words that shall shake and shape all after-time!
Giants with giants, wits with wits engage,
And England-England-England takes the breath
Of morning, body and soul, till the great Age
Fulfills in one great chord:--Elizabeth!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Oh England My Lionheart
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Im in your garden, fading fast in your arms.
The soldiers soften, the war is over.
The air raid shelters are blooming clover.
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes--
My london bridge in rain again.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Peter pan steals the kids in kensington park.
You read me shakespeare on the rolling thames--
That old river poet that never, ever ends.
Our thumping hearts hold the ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart!
Dropped from my black spitfire to my funeral barge.
Give me one kiss in apple-blossom.
Give me one wish, and Id be wassailing
In the orchard, my english rose,
Or with my shepherd, wholl bring me home.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
Oh! england, my lionheart,
I dont want to go.
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd
(Comus.) Your hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd;
Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd:
Come, my boys, come;
Come, my boys, come;
And merrily roar out Harvest Home.
(Chorus.) Come, my boys, come;
Come, my boys, come;
And merrily roar out Harvest Home.
(Man.) We ha' cheated the parson, we'll cheat him agen,
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
One in ten,
One in ten,
For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten?
For prating so long like a book-learn'd sot,
Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot,
Burn to pot,
Burn to pot,
Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot.
(Chorus.)Burn to pot,
Burn to pot,
Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot.
We'll toss off our ale till we canno' stand,
And Hoigh for the honour of Old England:
Old England,
Old England,
And Hoigh for the honour of Old England.
(Chorus.) Old England,
Old England,
And Hoigh for the honour of Old England.
poem by John Dryden
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When people say England, they sometimes mean Great Britain, sometimes the United Kingdom, sometimes the British Isles, - but never England.
quote by George Mikes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy in a Country Churchyard
The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England,
They have no graves as yet.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Elegy in a Country Churchyard
The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England,
They have no graves as yet.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A War Hero's Lament
Don't fight for England anymore,
Don't fight for the chaps at the corner store,
Just go back home and close the door
'Cos England isn't England anymore.
Don't boast you're British, they'll deplore
Your ancestry and what is more
They'll kick you out, show you the door
'Cos England isn't England anymore.
They'll tell you you are just like them,
They'll laugh at you and then condemn
Your Anglo-Saxon attitude
And tell you it is very crude.
Don't blame them, they don't understand
Devotion to a fatherland:
They're here to make the very most
Of everything that you have lost.
(The cunning reader may detect
I'm not 'politically correct',
Well that is true - that's why I choose
To sing these PATRIOTIC blues! !)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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When We Get To England
When we get to england
Will we know when weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will we know if she has died?
Does the girl with the dogs
Still live in the big house
On the corner?
Are the boys collecting frogs
Still marching away
To die in war?
Like its all from a dream
Like its all from some history book
Didnt look too hard
Did I miss something that I should have seen?
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
Will we know where weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will a kiss bring her alive?
Once a farmer in the field
Had to grow enough
To feed his family
Now they pay him for his yield
Just to burn it down
And throw away
Like its all from a dream
Like its all in a crystal ball
Did it fall so hard?
Rest in pieces on a village green
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waterloo Day
THIS is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.
Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;
Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,
Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,
When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,
When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,
When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,
And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.
England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,
Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:
And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;
They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.
Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,
Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!
For valour and faith and honour--these grow where the red flower grows,
And the leaves for the Nation's healing must spring from the blood of her foes.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Made In England
I was made in England
Out of cadillac muscle
I had a quit-me father
I had a quit-me mother
I had a little Richard
And that black piano
Oh that sweet Georgia peach
And the boy from Tupelo-
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
I was made in England
Out of cadillac muscle
Face down on the playground
Crying god send me a brother
Not a bloody nose
For Rock-┬┤n┬┤-Roll
Give me that sweet Georgian peach
And the boy from Tupelo
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
I was made in England
Like a blue Cortina
But a Yankee summer
Had a way about her
You had a scent for scandal
Well here┬┤s my middle finger
I had forty years of pain
And nothing to cling to
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
If you┬┤re made in England
You┬┤re biult to last
You can still say homo
And everybody laughs
But the joke┬┤s on you
You never read the song
They all think they know
But they┬┤ve all got wrong
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
Wow oh oh oh I was made in England
song performed by by Elton John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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