Sunday, 23 April 2006

St George's Day

As a modest contribution to celebrating the day for the patron saint of England, here are the words to a Michaeil Flanders and Donald Swan classic,

Song of Patriotic Predjudice.

The English, the English, the English are best
I wouldn't give tuppence for all of the rest

The rottenest bits of these islands of our
We've left in the hands of three unfriendly powers
Examine the Irishman, Welshman or Scot

You'll find he's a stinker, as likely as not

The Scotsman is mean, as we're all well aware
And bony and blotchy and covered in hair
He eats salty porridge, he works all the day
And he hasn't got bishops to show him the way.

The English, the English, the English are best
I wouldn't give tuppence for all of the rest

The Irishman now our contempt is beneath
He sleeps in his boots and he lies through his teeth
He blows up policemen, or so I have heard
And blames it on Cromwell and William the Third!

The English are noble, the English are nice
And worth any other at double the price.

The Welshman's dishonest, he cheats when he can
And little and dark, more like monkey than man
He works underground with a lamp in his hat
He sings far too loud, far too often, and flat!

And crossing the channel, one cannot say much
For the French or the Spanish, the Danish or Dutch
The Germans are German, the Russians are red
And the Greeks and Italians eat garlic in bed!

The English are moral, the English are good
And clever, and modest, and misunderstood!

And all the world over, each nation's the same
They've simply no notion of playing the game
They argue with umpires, they cheer when they've won
And they practice beforehand, which ruins the fun!

The English, the English, the English are best
So up with the English, and down with the rest.

It's not that there wicked, or naturally bad
It's knowing they're foreign that makes them so mad!




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