THE ENGLISHMAN.
BY ELIZA COOK.
There's a land that bears a well-known name,
Though it is but a little spot;
I say 'tis the first on the scroll of fame,
And who shall aver it is not?
Of the deathless ones who shine and live
In arms, in arts, or song,
The brightest the whole wide world can give
To that little land belong.
'Tis the star of the Earth—deny it who can—
The Island-home of the Englishman.
There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
No matter when or where;
And to treat that flag as aught but the free
Is more than the strongest dare.
For the lion spirits that tread the deck
Have carried the palm of the brave;
And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck,
But never float o'er a slave;
Its honour is stainless—deny it who can—
And this is the flag of the Englishman.
There's a heart that beats with burning glow,
The wrong'd and the weak to defend;
And strikes as soon for a trampled foe
As it does for a soul-bound friend.
It nurtures a deep and honest love,
The passions of faith and pride,
And yearns with the fondness of a dove,
To the light of its own fireside,
'Tis a rich rough gem—deny it who can—
And this is the heart of an Englishman.
The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone
And boldly claim his right,
For he calls such a vast domain his own
That the sun never sets on his might.
Let the haughty stranger seek to know
The place of his home and birth;
And a flush will pour from cheek to brow
While he tells of his native earth;
For a glorious charter—deny it who can—
Is breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman."