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A few of the most famous English poems by great English poets. Two of them are mentioned in the lyrics of our signature song ' This is England '

She Walks in Beauty George Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!


The Mask of Anarchy Percy Bysshe Shelley

Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war.
And if then the tyrants dare,
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim and hew,
What they like, that let them do.
With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away
Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak
In hot blushes on their cheek.
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you-

Ye are many — they are few"

Ode to Autumn John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they ?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


Daffodils William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.





The Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward,
All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldiers knew Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!


Greensleeves 16th Century unknown

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.


Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.

If you intend thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I still remain
A lover in captivity.

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.

The Owl and the Pussy Cat Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"0 lovely Pussy, 0 Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried,
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.



Hamlet William Shakespeare

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment, [pith]
With this regard their Currents turn awry, [away]
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.


Over the years I have been sent many patriotic poems from people asking if I can make them in to songs. Unfortunately I can't. However I am going to start putting them on the website as a way for people to publish them. This is the first one by Oliver Healey



English Warriors unite today
We need to be together to fight our foes
Divided we have lost
United we can Win
St George and St Edmund
Godwinson and Athlestan
Our England needs us now
Our Land Our Country
Speak Up today or be silenced by our foes
We are proud We are Right.
... ENGLAND had warriors once
SHE has them still.
FLY THE FLAG for England.






The Stranger within my Gate Rudyard Kipling

The Stranger within my gate, he may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk - I cannot feel his mind
I see the face and the eyes and mouth
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock, they may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to, they are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.

The stranger within my gates, he may be evil or good
But I cannot tell what powers control, what reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock, bitter bad they may be,
But at least they hear the things I hear, and see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes,
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief, and this is also mine:
Let all the corn be one sheaf, and the grapes be all one vine
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.


Links to more famous English poems by great English poets.

The Smuggler's Song by Rudyard Kipling.

Beowulf - Anonymous 8th Century Anglo Saxon

Various Peoms by Jane Austen

Rune script

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