Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
(Sir Walter Scott. The Lay of the Last Minstrel)
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
(William Ernest Henley. For England's Sake)
Green fields of England! wheresoe'r
Across this watery waste we fare,
Your image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.
(Arthur Hugh Clough. Songs in Absence: Green Fields of England)
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!
(Robert Browning. Home-thoughts, from Abroad)