 | Songs for Sailors |  |
STILL BOAST YOURSELF AN ENGLISHMAN.
‘The English race is multiplying at an unabated velocity, and is
peopling the world.’—Registrar-General's Report for 1868.
‘Increase, and fill the earth,’ God said.
In truth we do that bidding well:
We among men may proudly tread,
As we our destiny foretell.
What is our future? One, sublime,
Beyond that dealt to other lands;
We almost count the years till Time
Shall give the world's rule to our hands.
Measured with that, how poor the powers
By races grasped since time began;
He well may prize the pride that's ours,
Who boasts himself an Englishman.
In truth we do that bidding well:
We among men may proudly tread,
As we our destiny foretell.
What is our future? One, sublime,
Beyond that dealt to other lands;
We almost count the years till Time
Shall give the world's rule to our hands.
Measured with that, how poor the powers
By races grasped since time began;
He well may prize the pride that's ours,
Who boasts himself an Englishman.
Yes, year by year, still more and more
With English life we flood all lands,
And continent and isle we store
With fearless hearts and restless hands.
Where'er we go, free faith, free speech,
Go with us, and the ringing strife
Of clashing thoughts, in words that teach
To man the nobleness of life.
Where'er we plant our free feet, there
Man may say all, be all he can;
Therefore a righteous pride is where
There speaks and boasts an Englishman.
With English life we flood all lands,
And continent and isle we store
With fearless hearts and restless hands.
Where'er we go, free faith, free speech,
Go with us, and the ringing strife
Of clashing thoughts, in words that teach
To man the nobleness of life.
Where'er we plant our free feet, there
Man may say all, be all he can;
Therefore a righteous pride is where
There speaks and boasts an Englishman.
81
Ours are great deeds, ours mighty names
That we and Glory treasure well;
Of Shakespeare's, Milton's, Cromwell's fames
Our love and reverence proudly tell.
Ever the march of man we've led;
We hold the gains of glorious fights
Won by our living and our dead,
Whose conquests were our priceless rights;
Those rights of ours, of sumless worth,
All lands are gaining as they can;
The guide, the envy of the earth,
Is every freeborn Englishman.
That we and Glory treasure well;
Of Shakespeare's, Milton's, Cromwell's fames
Our love and reverence proudly tell.
Ever the march of man we've led;
We hold the gains of glorious fights
Won by our living and our dead,
Whose conquests were our priceless rights;
Those rights of ours, of sumless worth,
All lands are gaining as they can;
The guide, the envy of the earth,
Is every freeborn Englishman.
O olden glories, ever last,
Shine on us still, as still you've shone!
O mighty memories of our past
To other glories hurl us on.
Not on the gains of days gone by
Our pride shall now ignobly rest,
But on our will to smile to die,
So we but make our race more blest.
Up to our greatness we must live,
Give to the future all we can;
Be it our pride fresh pride to give
To every coming Englishman.
Shine on us still, as still you've shone!
O mighty memories of our past
To other glories hurl us on.
Not on the gains of days gone by
Our pride shall now ignobly rest,
But on our will to smile to die,
So we but make our race more blest.
Up to our greatness we must live,
Give to the future all we can;
Be it our pride fresh pride to give
To every coming Englishman.
Where'er it spreads, our race is one,
In laws, in rights, in blood, in tongue,
One by the fame of all we've done,
Of all we've suffered, thought, and sung.
The curse of all of England born
Be his who'd thrust us heart from heart;
Let all our nations laugh to scorn
The wretch who'd strive their love to part.
One in all climes, where'er at birth
Your English-speaking life began,
Where'er your free feet tread the earth
Still boast yourself an Englishman.
In laws, in rights, in blood, in tongue,
One by the fame of all we've done,
Of all we've suffered, thought, and sung.
The curse of all of England born
Be his who'd thrust us heart from heart;
Let all our nations laugh to scorn
The wretch who'd strive their love to part.
One in all climes, where'er at birth
Your English-speaking life began,
Where'er your free feet tread the earth
Still boast yourself an Englishman.
| Songs for Sailors | |