Noël Coward - The Stately Homes of England Lyrics

Lord Elderly, Lord Borrowmere,Lord Sickert and Lord Camp.With every virtue, every grace,Ah, what avails the sceptred race.Here you see the four of us,And there are so many more of us-Eldest sonsThat must succeed.We know how Caesar conquered Gaul,And how to whack a cricket ball;Apart from this, our educationLacks co-ordination.Though we're young,And tentative,And rather rip-representativeScions of a noble breed,We are the products of those homes,Serene and stately,That only lately,Seem to have run to seed.The stately homes of EnglandHow beautiful they stand,To prove the upper classesHave still the upper hand.Though the fact that they have to be rebuilt,And frequently mortgaged to the hiltIs inclined to take the giltOff the gingerbread,And certainly damps the funOf the eldest son-But still, we won't be beaten,We'll scrimp and scrape and save.The playing fields of EtonHave made us frightfully brave.And though if the Van Dycks have to goAnd we pawn the Bechstein Grand,We'll standBy the stately homes of England.Here you seeThe pick of us.You may be heartily sick of us.Still, with senseWe're all imbued.Our homes command extensive views,And with assistance from the Jews,We have been able to dispose ofRows and rows and rows ofGainsboroughs and Lawrences,Some sporting prints of Aunt Florence's,Some of which were rather rude.Although we sometimes flaunt our family conventions,Our good intentionsMustn't be misconstrued.The stately homes of England,We proudly represent.We only keep them upFor Americans to rent.Though the pipes that supply the bathroom burst,And the lavatory makes you fear the worst,It was used by Charles I(Quite informally),And later by George IV,On a journey north.The state departments keep theirHistorical renown.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 fightFor the stately homes of England.The stately homes of England,Though rather in the lurch,Provide a lot of chancesFor psychical research.There's the ghost of a crazy younger son,Who murdered in 1351An extremely rowdy nun,Who resented it,And people who come to callMeet her in the hall.The baby in the guest wingWho crouches by the grate,Was walled up in the west wing,In 1428.If anyone spotsThe Queen of ScotsIn a hand-embroidered shroud,We're proudOf the stately homes of England.