Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone, <br />Some of us harbour still <br />A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide <br />The Spirit of Bunker Hill. <br />We claim our place, as a separate race, <br />Or a self-created clan: <br />Till there comes a day when we like to say, <br />'We are kin of the Englishman.' <br /> <br /> <br />For under the front that seems so cold, <br />And the voice that is wont to storm, <br />We are certain to find a big, broad mind <br />And a heart that is soft and warm. <br />And he carries his woes in a lordly way, <br />As only the great souls can: <br />And it makes us glad when in truth we say, <br />'We are kin of the Englishman.' <br /> <br /> <br />He slams his door in the face of the world, <br />If he thinks the world too bold. <br />He will even curse; but he opens his purse <br />To the poor, and the sick, and the old. <br />He is slow in giving to woman the vote, <br />And slow to pick up her fan; <br />But he gives her room in an hour of doom, <br />And dies-like an Englishman.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-englishman-5/
