e still—
  My country! and while yet a nook is left,
  Where English minds and manners may be found,
  Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime
  Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
  With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
  I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies
  And fields without a flower, for warmer France
  With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
  Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.
  To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
  Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
  Upon thy foes, was never meant my task;
  But I can feel thy fortune, and partake
  Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
  As any thunderer there. And I can feel
  Thy follies too, and with a just disdain
  Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
  Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
  How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
  Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
  And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er
  With odours, and as profligate as sweet,
  Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
  And love when they should fight; when such as these
  Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
  Of her magnificent and awful cause?
  Time was when it was praise and boast enough
  In every clime, and travel where we might,
  That we were born her children. Praise enough
  To fill the ambition of a private man,
  That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
  And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
  Farewell those honours, and farewell