These to the glory and praise of the green land
That bred my women, and that holds my dead,
_ENGLAND_, and with her the strong broods that stand
Wherever her fighting lines are thrust or spread!
They call us proud?--Look at our English Rose!
Shedders of blood?--Where hath our own been spared?
Shopkeepers?--Our accompt the high _GOD_ knows.
Close?--In our bounty half the world hath shared.
They hate us, and they envy? Envy and hate
Should drive them to the _PIT'S_ edge?--Be it so!
That race is damned which misesteems its fate;
And this, in _GOD'S_ good time, they all shall know,
And know you too, you good green _ENGLAND_, then--
Mother of mothering girls and governing men!