The _social_ homes of England draw us to her like a band, For we are but the children of this true old glorious land. Of the “_merry homes_” of England our great-grandsires used to tell, But with pride and joy we prove it here, that we’ve Merry Holmes as well. Disclaiming all comparison, we write ours brave and free And kindly and hospitable as any Holmes can be. But we have very English grown, so soon we habits take on, We cannot even sip our tea, but we must have our Bacon. But English or American, it matters not a straw, For both hang out before the world without a taint or flaw. Go search through British literature, down to her Common Laws, And find what strength and nourishment it from its Bacon draws; And if you doubt America can follow in the van, Go test our “Cincinnati sides,” and “West Virginia ham.” So perfect in itself is each, it’s patent to my mind The choicest Bacons that can be, are just the two combined. By the watery distance we have come one might judge us merely sailors, But we’re nae thoughtless nor improvident, for we’ve even bro’t our Taylors. One doesn’t know how long ago, the unjust trick began To stigmatize a tailor as the ninth part of a man; But though as old and honored as the Judge’s wig and gown, Before the faithless falsehood I throw my gauntlet down: Yes, tho’ it was with Adam for the modest blush that came When he sewed his scanty fig leaves, and dropped his head for shame; Tho’ old as this--and thick, and black, and firm as granite, too, We’ll drill it to a honeycomb, and let the daylight through. So lay upon our Taylor here your nicest chalk-line true, And measure him, in soul and vim, as he would measure you; You’ll find, Sir Scandal, when you’ve done the best you ever can, In reach of thought, and breadth, and depth, he’s every inch a man. What did I say? I’m wrong--crave grace--to err is ever human-- Ah, with what pride of sex I claim, his better half a woman-- Tho’ fair Fidele and tender she walketh by his side, He can neither make nor mend her, but hold fast in his pride; And though no mortal’s meeker, we find from far and wide The best and wisest seek her, for a pattern and a guide. And does the critic here step in, and call us frozen-hearted, And lacking in paternal love, that we so long are parted From clinging dear ones left to pine like caged and crying starlings? Hold, sir! Here’s ointment for your wrath, for we have bro’t our Darlings. We hold them very near us, with tender love and true; Their happiness and welfare are never from our view; And though we’re willing sometimes that they abroad should roam, We would not spare our darlings forever from our home.