STATELY HOMES OF ENGLAND
Lord Elder, Lord Borrowmere, Lord Sickert and Lord Camp
With ev'ry virtue, with ev'ry grace,
Are what avails the sceptred race.
Here you see the four of us,
And there are so many more of us
Eldest sons that must succeed,
We know how Caesar conquer'd Gaul
And how to whack a cricket ball,
Apart from this, our education
Tho' we're young and rather tentative
Scions of a noble breed,
We are the products of those homes serene and stately
Which only lately seems to have run to seed!
The stately homes of England how beautiful they stand,
To prove the upper classes have still the upper hand;
Tho' the fact they have to be rebuilt
And frequently mortgag'd to the hilt
Is inclin'd to take the gilt off the gingerbread,
And certainly damps the fun,
Of the eldest son.
But still we won't be beaten,
We'll scrimp and screw and save,
The playing fields of Eton have made us frightfully brave
And tho' if the Van Dykes have to go
And we pawn the Bechstein grand
We'll stand by the stately homes of England
Have you seen the pick of us
You may be heartily sick of us
Still with sense we're all imbued
Our homes command extensive views.
And with assistance from the Jews.
We have been able to dispose of
Rows and rows and rows of
Gainsboroughs and Lawrences
Some sporting prints of Aunt Florences
Some of which we rather rude
Altho' we sometimes flaunt our family conventions
Our good intentions
Mustn't be misconstrued.
The stately homes of England we proudly represent,
We only keep them up for Americans to rent.
Tho' the pipes that supply the bathroom burst
And the lavat'ry makes you fear the worst
It was used by Charles the first (quite informally),
And later by George the fourth on a journey north,
The state apartments keep their historical reknown,
It's wiser not to sleep there in case they tumble down;
But still if they ever catch on fire
Which with any luck they might,
We'll fight for the stately homes of England.
The stately homes of England tho' rather in the lurch,
Provide a lot of chances for psychical research
There's a ghost of a crazy younger son,
Who murder'd in thirteen fifty one,
An extremely rowdy nun (who resented it),
And people who come to call
Meet her in the hall.
The baby in the guest wing who crouches by the grate,
Was wall'd up in the west wing in fourteen twenty eight.
If anyone spots the Queen of Scots in a hand embroider'd shroud,
We're proud of the stately homes of England.