Classic Poem

There is no country, England, 'neath the sky
So abject as thyself! Thou hast been led
By voice of baneful counsellors to shed
Thine enemy's blood. What wonder then if I
Stand not, as other singers, tamely by,
But am by patriotic impulse sped
To hurl denunciations on thine head
With what might almost seem acerbity?

But though my deep and burning love for thee,
The passionate attachment that I feel,
At times are somewhat acidly expressed,
'Tis sorrow wrings these bitter words from me
Which, to the heedful eye, more clear reveal
The genuine affection in my breast.