ENGLAND BY ELEANOR BLOOMFIELD
TINY LITTLE ISLAND,NESTLED MID THE FOAM
ANCIENT HONOURED LAND THAT I ONCE CALLED HOME
LAND OF GENTLE LOWLAND,RISING TO WITHERED HEIGHT
GENTLE SLEEPY ISLAND,YET FULL OF HIDDEN MIGHT
VENERABLE OAKS RISE TALL AND STRONG
THE RIVERS LAUGH THEIR GURGLING SONG
SOFT WINDS BLOW FROM THEIR LOFTY SEAT
LANES OF CENTURIES CARRY HURRYING FEET
UP TO THE SKY THE RUGGED HILLS SOAR
ACROSS LONELY MOORLANDS THE HARSH WINDS ROAR
BREEZES PLAY WITH THE GRASS ON THE LEA
THE RAIN SWEEPS ONWARD O'ER THE SEA
OVER LEANING GRAVESTONES OLD TREES KEEP WATCH
GNARLED OLD TRUNKS WITH MANY MANY A NOTCH
SUNSHINE DAPPLES LITTLE CHILDRENS PLAY
THE SPARKLING WATERS DANCING IN THE BAY
MOTHERLAND FOR WHOM THOUSANDS FOUGHT AND DIED
HOW DID YOU INSPIRE SUCH BRAVE HEROIC PRIDE
TO YOU DOWN THE AGES MEN HAVE STAYED TRUE
TO YOU TINY ISLAND FROM WHICH AN EMPIRE GREW