Old England is our home, and Englishmen are we

Buttercups and Daisies— Oh, the pretty flowers, Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours.

The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below, And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly; "'T is the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy."

Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers— Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And joy for weary hours.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!