'Tis a glorious charter, deny it who can, That's breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman."

There's a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.

Though language forms the preacher, 'Tis good works make the man.

Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start when memory plays an old tune on the heart!

I love it, I love it; and who shall dare / To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart