www.collectorsworld.net

 

 

Wonderful England!

Or

The Happy Land!

by Mrs. Ernest Ames.

London: Grant Richard.

c.1902

 

Here's the Lord Mayor

The most busy of men,

That's the reason he owns

Such a wonderful pen.

Wherever he travels

He carries his soup, And that's why you see them

All here in a group

This is a jury

"Twelve good men and true,"

In a kind of a box

That resembles a pew.

A judge might be stupid,

And lawyers may fight

But whatever the jury thinks

Must be quite right.

This man who is driving

You see is a Peer,

Because he's been brewing

Such beautiful beer

Here's the great House of Commons

Where everyone's mind,

Is absorbed in some scheme

Of relief for mankind.

These are the Goldfers

We hear much about!

At every spare moment

Our Statesmen turn out.

You see them here running

To catch a fast train,

"Good bye then, on Monday

We'll see you again!"

When naughty young truants

Their lessons would shirk,

Good Mr. Policeman

Conducts them to work.

We're so fond of music!

It really is grand

To hear all at once

A harp, organ and band.

They never seem tired

Or anxious to stop,

Though people who listen

Are ready to drop.

Here's a London Policeman

In Uniform neat,

Without him you'd never

Cross over the street.

He gracefully raises

a No. 12 hand,

And terrified horses

All come to a stand.

You may think it surprising

But racing of course,

No jockey rides now

On the back of his horse.

We all learn to row

When we first go to school,

And each boy is taught

By a coach as a rule.

The pupil is rowing

The Coach though is not,

But keeps in good training

And makes himself hot.

This is the Stag

That we hunt now and then,

There's a cart for the Stag

Who is kept in a pen.

At the end of a run

When he's tired you see,

The hounds are called off

And go home to their tea.

Our transport department

Was recently mended,

The way that it now works

Is perfectly splendid

The horses we purchase

In bunches abroad,

Are, you see, tied together

With pieces of cord.

We use them for remounts,

They look rather flat,

But no doubt our officials

Think nothing of that.

Secure on our island,

Surrounded by sea,

We feel we're as safe

As can possibly be.

Sould anyone venture

Our shores to invade,

Here's something they'll find

That will make them afraid

The Admiralty full of

Most noble intentions,

Buys up as you know

All the latest inventions.

Our brand new Destroyers

Turned out by the score,

Fold up in the middle,

What could you want more.

The first Sea-Lord performs

A most difficult feat.

It is said that he tastes

All the jam for our fleet!

Of course it is Cricket

That made England great,

And at Waterloo settled

An Emperor's fate.

Our standard of batting

Is ever unfurled,

And "flannelled" elevens

Must conquer the world.

There's nothing in Scotland

So good as a stalk!

You mayn't get a shot

But you do get a walk.

You crawl on your knees

Over counties of Crags,

And stagger home happy

A bundle of rags.

Hurrah for the fishing

We rent by the year,

Of the sport there is often

But little to hear.

But you've plenty of fun

When the weather is fine,

With a Smart pair of waders,

A rod and a line.

The passion for Ping-Pong

Is getting much worse,

Here's a case where it almost

Amounts to a curse.

An excellent couple

Got up out of bed

While still fast asleep

And played Ping-Pong instead.

The Roast Beef of England

Is always home grown,

What else would you get

In a true British home?

To a Frenchman of course

It gives horrible shocks

To eat at a table

That groans with an Ox.

Behold the Refreshments

Our railways provide,

The sight of such food

Makes us hollow inside.

Here is every contrivance

For pouring out beer,

And a bun that has lain

On the counter a year.

And here's the Bank Holiday,

Everyone's joy,

All the world goes a trip,

Father, Mother and Boy.

The best way to spend it

Is down by the sea,

Where you ride on the sands

And have shrimps for your tea.

Wonderful England!

Or

The Happy Land!

by Mrs. Ernest Ames.

London: Grant Richard.