England, With All Thy Faults I Love

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

Perhaps Thou Gav'st Me, Though Unseen, A Kiss; Perhaps A Tear, If Souls Can Weep In Bliss.

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.

God Made Bees, And Bees Made Honey, God Made Man, And Man Made Money, Pride Made The Devil, And The Devil Made Sin; So God Made A Cole-pit To Put The Devil In.

England, With All Thy Faults I Love Thee Still, My Country!