Great Britain

Soft falls the rain upon the glen
Home to the canny Scottish men
Who wear the kilt for father’s sake
The past a chain they do not break

 

Soft falls the rain on peat-bog fen
Home to the dark-eyed Irish men
Who wear the shamrock on their chest
And treat like kings the lowest guest

 

Soft falls the rain on welcoming hill
Where throaty Welshmen boom and trill
Where rare on coal face the axe now rings
But still undaunted the miner sings

 

Soft falls the rain on country lane
Where in tolerance the English reign
Who bind emotions as they are taught
Ne’er to voice their inner thought

 

Soft falls the rain on this gentle land
Where split, but joined, four races stand
And though we have fallen to enemies pleasure
Let them pour scorn, then repent at their leisure.