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 put up her fan;
But he gives her room in the hour of doom,
And dies–like an Englishman.