CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS
IT is positively false to call us frantic,
For the soundness of our mental state is sure,
Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic
As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.
We consider dear old England as the fountain
Of all institutions reputably sane;
We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;
We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.
We assiduously imitate the polish
That we notice round the English nabob hang;
We unfailingly endeavour to abolish
From our voices any trace of nasal twang.
Every patriotic duty we leave undone,
With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,
Since we venerate the very name of London
In proportion to our hatred of New York.
No treaty could in any manner soften
Our contempt for native tailors when we dress;
If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,
And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”
We esteem the Revolution as illegal;
If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;
We particularly execrate an eagle,
And we languish on the fourth day of July.
We are not prepared in any foolish manner
The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;
We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”
But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”
We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us
With a sneer at the republic we obey!
We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us
Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!
Edgar Fawcett.
From “The Buntling Ball.”