Classic Poem

The Anglo-Saxon leads the van,
And never lags behind,
For was not he ordain'd to be
The leader of mankind?
He carries very little sail,
Makes very little show,
But gains the haven without fail,
Whatever winds may blow.

He runs his plow in ev'ry land,
He sails in ev'ry sea,
All prospers where he has a hand,
For king of men is he,
He plants himself on Afric's sand,
And 'mong Spitzbergen's snows,
For he takes root in any land,
And blossoms like the rose.

Into the wilderness he goes,
He loves the wild and free,
The forests stagger 'neath his blows —
A sturdy man is he.
To have a homestead of his own,
The giants down he'll bring —
His shanty's sacred as a throne,
And there he'll reign a king.

For let him plant him where he may,
On this you may depend,
As sure as worth will have a sway,
He's ruler in the end.
For he believes in thrift, and knows
The money-making art;
But tho' in riches great he grows,
They harden not his heart.

He never knows when he is beat,
To knock him down is vain, —
He's sure to get upon his feet,
And into it again.
If you're resolved to be his foe,
You'll find him rather tough;
But he'll not strike another blow
Whene'er you call " Enough! "

His is a nature true as steel,
Where many virtues blend,
A head to think, a heart to feel,
A soul to comprehend.
I love to look upon his face,
Whate'er be his degree, —
An honor to the human race,
The king of men is he.