There has always been in England
  An older England still,
Where Chaucer rode to Canterbury
  And Falstaff drank his fill.

Where poets scrawled immortal lines
  Beside a daffodil,
And lovers lay upon the grass
  Atop of Bredon Hill.

Where parson in his pulpit droned
  As Nancy winked at Bill,
Where Brontës conjured moonlit paths
  And Hardy drowned a mill.

Where jolly tars sailed hearts-of-oak
  From China to Brazil,
And foxes sought out Squire’s pack
  To race them for the thrill.

We never could cease worshipping
  What never was— nor will;
There has always been in England
  An older England still.