For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,- Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.