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Poetry


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For Witzl

By jean.day

17 February 2007

But posted here because I thought some others of you might enjoy it too. I wish I could claim ownership, but the poem was written by somebody called Alice Duer Miller in a book called The White Cliffs, published in 1943.

So Susan, my dear, the letter began

You’ve fallen in love with an Englishman.

Well, they are a manly, attractive lot,

If you happen to like them, which I do not.

I am a Yankee through and through

And I don’t like them, or the things they do.

Whenever it’s come to a knock-down fight

With us, they were wrong, and we were right.

If you don’t believe me, cast your mind

Back over history, what do you find?

They certainly had no justification

For that maddening plan to impose taxation

Without any form of representation.

Your man may be all that a man should be

Only don’t you bring him back to me

Saying he can’t get decent tea.

He could have got his tea all right

In Boston Harbor a certain night,

When your great great grandmother, also a Sue,

Shook enough out of her husband’s shoe

To supply her house for a week or two.

The war of 1812 seems to me

About as just as a war could be.

How could we help but come to grips

With a nation that stopped and searched our ships,

And took off our seamen for no other reason

Except that they needed crews that season?

They have their points - they’re honest and brave

Loyal and sure, as sure as the grave;

They make other nations seem pale and flighty

But they do think England is god almighty.

And you must remind them now and then

That other countries breed other men

From all of which you will think me rather

Unjust. I am, Your devoted Father.

Reviews

Written by Fledermaus (3492 comments posted) 17th February 2007

Heheh... I'm curious how she'll reply.
Strangely enough it seems as if on the continent Britain is sometimes considered to be the USA's 51st wannabe state

Written by Witzl (1585 comments posted) 17th February 2007

Wow -- I've just seen this. Now that's a father with a long memory!

When I took my husband to Kentucky to meet my mother's brother, my uncle regarded him with a shrewd look and asked 'Now, you are -- English?' My husband said yes. 'Not Scotch -- not Irish, or Welsh?' My husband had to say no. Later I heard my uncle telling another uncle about my husband, 'He's English, but he's really nice.' I just loved that use of 'but.' In Western Kentucky where my mother was from, the English owned the mines and the Welsh and Scots worked in them. And my mother's Irish ancestors were sold as slaves to plantations in Barbados; they had long memories too.

Interestingly enough, the further south we went, the more people loved Peter's English accent: 'Ooh -- you're English! Say that again!' I used to have him talk to people, reasoning that with his British accent he'd be more popular than I, a Yankee.

I always think it's fun to see Southerners come to the U.K. and find that they too are 'Yanks.' That must really hurt them.

Where did you find that poem, Jean?

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