  IT is positively false to call us frantic, For the soundness of our mental state is sure, Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic We consider dear old England as the fountain Of all institutions reputably sane; We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain; We regard a rolling prairie with disdain. We assiduously imitate the polish That we notice round the English nabob hang; We unfailingly endeavour to abolish From our voices any trace of nasal twang. Every patriotic duty we leave undone, With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork, Since we venerate the very name of London In proportion to our hatred of New York. No treaty could in any manner soften Our contempt for native tailors when we dress; If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often, And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.” We esteem the Revolution as illegal; If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh; We particularly execrate an eagle, And we languish on the fourth day of July. We are not prepared in any foolish manner The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen; We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,” But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.” We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay! Edgar Fawcett. From “The Buntling Ball.” |
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