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Dover Cliffs

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And while the distant murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes from which he wept to part.
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall;
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide,

William Lisle Bowles 1762 - 1850

Ye Mariners of England

Ye Mariners of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe:
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave -
For the deck it was their field of flame
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below -
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return;
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell 1777 - 1844

England

Your land and my land,  Your England and mine,

A mother calls her sons where¡¯ere the sun doth shine.

Glory be with her

And keep her name divine.

Your land and my land,

Your England and mine.

Author unknown to me yet

Happy is England!

 Happy is England! I could be content

To see no other verdure than its own;

To feel no other breezes than are blown

Through its tall woods with high romances blent:

Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment

For skies Italian, and an inward groan

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,

And half forget what world or worldling meant.

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;

Enough their simple loveliness for me,

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:

Yet do I often warmly burn to see

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,

And float with them about the summer waters.

John Keats (1795–1821).

England My Lionheart

Oh England My Lionheart,
I'm in your garden fading fast in your arms
The soldiers soften, the war is over
The air-raid shelters are blooming clover,
Flapping umbrellas fill the lanes
My London Bridge in rain again.

Oh England My Lionheart
Peter Pan steals the kids in Kensington Park
You read me Shakespeare on the Rolling Thames,
That old River Post that never, ever ends
Our Thumping hearts hold the Ravens in,
And keep the tower from tumbling

Chorus:
Oh England My Lionheart
I don't want to go

Oh England My Lionheart
Dropped from my Black Spitfire to my funeral barge,
Give me one kiss in the apple blossom,
Give me one wish and I'd be wassailing
In the orchard my English Rose,
Or with my shepherd who'll bring me home