Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some of us harbour still
A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide
The Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
Or a self-created clan:
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
'We are kin of the Englishman.'


For under the front that seems so cold,
And the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find a big, broad mind
And a heart that is soft and warm.
And he carries his woes in a lordly way,
As only the great souls can:
And it makes us glad when in truth we say,
'We are kin of the Englishman.'


He slams his door in the face of the world,
If he thinks the world too bold.
He will even curse; but he opens his purse
To the poor, and the sick, and the old.
He is slow in giving to woman the vote,
And slow to pick up her fan;
But he gives her room in an hour of doom,
And dies-like an Englishman.

In England, there are wrongs no doubt,
Which should be righted; so men say,
Who seek to weed earth's garden out,
And give the roses right of way;
Yes, right of way, to fruit and rose,
Where now but poison ivy grows.


In England, there is wide unrest,
They tell me who should know; and yet
I saw but hedges, gayly dressed,
And eyes where love and kindness met;
Yes, love and kindness, met and made
Soft sunshine even in the shade.


In England, there are haunting things
Which follow one to other lands;
Like some pervading scent that clings
To laces touched by vanished hands;
Yes, touched by vanished hands, which made
A fragrance that defies the grave.


In England, centuries of art
Give common things a mellow tone;
And wake old memories in the heart
Of other lives the soul has known;
Yes, other lives in some past age
Start forth from canvas, and from page.


In England, there are simple joys,
The modern world has left all sweet;
In London's heart, are nooks where noise
Has entered but with slippered feet;
Yes, entered softly. Friend, believe,
To part from England is to grieve.