Eliza Cook (1818–1889)

THERE’S a land that bears a world-known name,

Though it is but a little spot;

I say ’tis first on the scroll of Fame,

And who shall say 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 earth, deny it who can;

The island home of an 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 over a slave;

Its honour is stainless, deny it who can;

And this is the flag of an Englishman.

There’s a heart that leaps with burning glow,

The wronged 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;

It glows with 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 his native earth.

For a glorious charter, deny it who can,

Is breathed in the words “I’m an Englishman.”