ENGLAND, our England, thou whose sway
Spreads o'er broad lands and boundless sea,
Tho' thro' the wide world far they stray,
Thy children's hearts are shrin'd in thee.
Let others cherish, if they will,
The splendours of the Southern morn,
Flash'd o'er blue lake and snow-clad hill, -
But England for the British-born!

The roll of her imperial seas
Beating vast rhythms on England's strand;
The flutter of a soft-wing'd breeze
Laughing o'er English pasture-land;
The happy brooklet's bubbling flow,
The sweep of wind thro' ripening corn,
Than all the gorgeous East can show
Are dearer to the British-born!

In vain the East, the West, the South,
Unfold their charms to English eyes;
They long amid the desert's drouth
For our mild sun, our show'ry skies.
When Britain's children lonely stray,
Aliens in alien lands forlorn,
Turning their eyes untouched away,
Still homeward look the British-born.