A wonderful joy our eyes to bless In her magnificent comeliness, Is an English girl of eleven stone two, And five foot ten in her dancing shoe! She follows the hounds, and on she pounds-- The ‘field’ tails off and the muffs diminish-- Over the hedges and brooks she bounds Straight as a crow from find to finish. At cricket, her kin will lose or win-- She and her maids, on grass and clover, Eleven maids out--eleven maids in-- (And perhaps an occasional ‘maiden over’). _Go search the world and search the sea, Then come you home and sing with me There’s no such gold and no such pearl As a bright and beautiful English girl!_ With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs, She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims-- She plays, she sings, she dances, too, From ten or eleven till all is blue! At ball or drum, till small hours come (Chaperon’s fan conceals her yawning), She’ll waltz away like a teetotum, And never go home till daylight’s dawning. Lawn tennis may share her favours fair-- Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing-- Down comes her hair, but what does she care? It’s all her own, and it’s worth the showing! Her soul is sweet as the ocean air, For prudery knows no haven there; To find mock-modesty, please apply To the conscious blush and the downcast eye. Rich in the things contentment brings, In every pure enjoyment wealthy, Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings, For body and mind are hale and healthy. Her eyes they thrill with a right good will-- Her heart is light as a floating feather-- As pure and bright as the mountain rill That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather. _Go search the world and search the sea, Then come you home and sing with me There’s no such gold and no such pearl As a bright and beautiful English girl!_ _William Schwenk Gilbert._ WATTS-DUNTON XCII THE BREATH OF AVON TO ENGLISH-SPEAKING PILGRIMS ON SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHDAY I Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in womb For England, mother of kings of battle and song-- Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong, Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom-- Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long-- To near and far-off children young and strong-- With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume. Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye Whose hands around the world are join’d by him, Who make his speech the language of the sea, Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rim The Breath of Avon: let this great day be A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. II