H'if a yankee cutthroat ‘acks ‘is poor hold mother,
H'it tykes a year to pack ‘im h'off to jyle;
‘E can h'always dig h'up some h'excuse or hotter
To keep your justice creepin' like a snyle.
But h'in H'England, h'if a bloke gets h'into trouble,
To the pen h'in arf a jiffy ‘e will roam;
H'if ‘e mykes a fight ‘is punishment will double
We do things so muc better h'over ‘ome.

H'if a bloomin' Yankee starts to build a dwelling
‘E slaps h'it h'up without a bit h'of care,
In ‘arf the time h'it tykes me in the telling,
‘E ‘as the chimney pot h'up in the h'air.
But h'in H'England ‘ouses h'always last forever,
We build ‘em right, from cellar to dome;
H'although you bloomin' Yankees think you're clever,
We do things so much better h'over ‘ome.

‘Ere h'it's always ‘elter-skelter, rush and bustle,
H'and h'it's pell-mell h'into h'everthing you do;
You h'even teach your children ‘ow to ‘ustle
Your meals you never tyke the time to chew.
But h'in H'England, when h'it's tea time, we stop working,
H'an H'I wish that H'I was back h'across the foam,
H'in my ‘ead the notoin still h'is plynely lurking,
We do things so much better h'over ‘ome.