But give me England. Give me next to her
Her shadow if you have it. I think that's fair!
Give me her Back, with whatever riveted;
If her Front's in pieces, give me her Front dead!
I can't say more than that — a chip's enough
To fancy the old block-back, if it's top-carat stuff.
Give me a sort of buttercup — my loss
To shadow forth and symbolize of course.
Souvenir-hunter! rifle her corpse, but give
A public hair to me, with the old british whiff!
I'm for the old tart every time — for her
From Mab's queenier proto-Britannia, right back to Boadicea —
For Great Britain to the hilt — through thick and thin
That horsey Miss I've got under my skin
So give me a great abstraction, when it is England —
Free-land, sea-land, the Five-o'clock land,
Tea-terminus, hop-harvest-home, sweet hospital of rum,
Borrower of Schnapps for Gin-palaces — of Crusoe and Kingdom-Come,
Of the cavalier fan-flirter, Party-Politics, the Lewis-gun!
But whatever else you give me, hand over or withhold!
Never give me a sham England! — The true Old,
The pre-victorian article, or nothing!
Nothing that has not the breezy metallic ring
As you throw it down. Never palm off a stool
Pigeon! — It must either be all John Bull or no John Bull!