The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo, His mental processes are plain--one knows what he will do, And can logically predicate his finish by his start:
But the English--ah, the English!--they are quite a race apart.
Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and rare;They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;But the straw that they were tickled with--the chaff that they were fed with--They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.
For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State, They arrive at their conclusions--largely inarticulate.
Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;But sometimes, in a smoking-room, one learns why things were done.
In telegraphic sentences, half swallowed at the ends, They hint a matter's inwardness--and there the matter ends.
And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall, The English--ah, the English!--don't say anything at all!
