What of the cord? 
    The cord was made in England: 
  A rough cord, a tough cord,
    A cord that bowmen love;
      So we’ll drain our jacks
      To the English flax
  And the land where the hemp was wove.

      What of the shaft? 
    The shaft was cut in England: 
  A long shaft, a strong shaft,
    Barbed and trim and true;
      So we’ll drink all together
      To the gray goose feather,
  And the land where the gray goose flew.

      What of the men? 
    The men were bred in England: 
  The bowman—­the yeoman—­
    The lads of dale and fell. 
      Here’s to you—­and to you! 
     To the hearts that are true
  And the land where the true hearts dwell.

SIR A. CONAN DOYLE.

* * * * *

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND.

  When mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food,
  It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood;
  Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.
        O, the Roast Beef of old England,
        And O, the old English Roast Beef!

  But since we have learned from effeminate France
  To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
  We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance.
        O, the Roast Beef, etc.

HENRY FIELDING.

* * * * *

  Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong,
  And kept open house with good cheer all day long,
  Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song.
        O, the Roast Beef, etc.

  When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne,
  Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops, were known,
  The world was in terror, if e’en she did frown.
        O, the Roast Beef, etc.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again;
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.

            O, the Roast Beef, etc.

O, then we had stomachs to eat and to fight,
And when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right;
But now we’re—­hum?—­I could, but—­good night;
O, the Roast Beef of old England,
And O, the old English Roast Beef!

The last four stanzas added by RICHARD LOVERIDGE.

* * * * *

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND.

  Daddy Neptune, one day, to Freedom did say,
    If ever I lived upon dry land,
  The spot I should hit on would be little Britain! 
    Says Freedom, “Why, that’s my own island!”
        O, it’s a snug little island! 
        A right little, tight little island! 
      Search the globe round, none can be found
        So happy as this little island.