An English Toast.

    The English soil! - 'tis hallowed ground:
        Its restless children roam
    The world, but they have never found
        So dear a land as home;
    Their passion for its hills and downs
        Nor space nor time can spoil;
    A golden mist of memory crowns
        The good old English soil.

    The English race! - its pluck and pith,
        Its power to stay and win, -
    Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith,
        And Coeur de Lion's kin!
    Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll,
        Who sat in kingly place!
    Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all
        The good old English race!

    The English speech! - the copious tongue,
        Terse, vivid, plastic, fit,
    Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung,
        Which gave us Holy Writ;
    Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write,
        Which Taylor used, to preach,
    And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night -
        The good old English speech!

    "St. George and Merrie England!" - still
        The stirring phrase imparts
    Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill
        Through more than English hearts.
    God save Old England by His grace!
        We all alike beseech,
    Who know the English soil or race
        And speak the English speech.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Study In Solitude.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Quebec Exodus.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Montagnais At Tadoussac.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Oh! the Sickening Sensation!

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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The Englishman

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
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Rhymes And Rhythms - XXV

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
    England,
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
    England,
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:

William Ernest Henley

What Have I Done For You

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us:    we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:

William Ernest Henley

To Englishmen

You flung your taunt across the wave
We bore it as became us,
Well knowing that the fettered slave
Left friendly lips no option save
To pity or to blame us.

You scoffed our plea. Mere lack of will,
Not lack of power, you told us
We showed our free-state records; still
You mocked, confounding good and ill,
Slave-haters and slaveholders.

We struck at Slavery; to the verge
Of power and means we checked it;
Lo!presto, change! its claims you urge,
Send greetings to it oer the surge,
And comfort and protect it.

But yesterday you scarce could shake,
In slave-abhorring rigor,
Our Northern palms for conscience sake
To-day you clasp the hands that ache
With walloping the nigger!*

O Englishmen!in hope and creed,
In...

John Greenleaf Whittier

The English Graves

Were I that wandering citizen whose city is the world,
I would not weep for all that fell before the flags were furled;
I would not let one murmur mar the trumpets volleying forth
How God grew weary of the kings, and the cold hell in the north.
But we whose hearts are homing birds have heavier thoughts of home,
Though the great eagles burn with gold on Paris or on Rome,
Who stand beside our dead and stare, like seers at an eclipse,
At the riddle of the island tale and the twilight of the ships.

For these were simple men that loved with hands and feet and eyes,
Whose souls were humbled to the hills and narrowed to the skies,
The hundred little lands within one little land that lie,
Where Severn seeks the sunset isles or Sussex scales the sky.

And what is theirs, though...

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

An Ode To Englishmen.

I.

    I who have sung of love and lady bright
    And mirth and music and the world's delight,
    Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
    To move the minds of foemen when they fight.


II.

    Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
    And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
    And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
    Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?


III.

    Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
    The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
    And I must parley with the men of toil
    Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.


IV.

    I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
    And each true soul shall learn the least and most
    Of all his wrongs, ...

Eric Mackay