The Pax Britannica - Ian Anderson

I came to woo you at behest of

Uncle Leo, did my best

to charm and Hatter, sooth, lay thoughts

of scheming Saxon Prince to rest.

Just seventeen, you were emboldened,

turned away plain Orange boy

and made for me a consort haven

in your heart, haven of joy.

Now Empire spills a growing blot

across the atlas, leaves its mark.

The hands of men in iron ships stoke

their boilers, fan the spark.

Generous in deed and promise, our

emissaries make fair trade

and pay with sovereign Queenly coin for goods

and worldly fortunes made.

We will win them and contain them,

not by Enneld Pattern gun:

no hard coercion, whip or stick but

ten good shillings to be won.

See, we offer contracts clear in

English, plain as it appears

in small print, some trifling matters:

not important, never fear.

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules

the headland and the wave.

Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep

us from an early grave.

Sweet Victoria, Mother England,

gracious queen whom God will save.

We’ll leave them gifts of architecture,

engineering, laws and more.

The willow bat, the bowler hat of

gentlemen who keep the score.

Head-up code of moral conduct,

never minions to deceive.

Straight the ball and, best ofall, when

time is come, we take our leave.

Pax Britannica, Pax Britannica, rules

the headland and the wave.

Hansa spirit will enrich us, keep

us from an early grave.

My sweet Victoria, your dearest Albert;

two ledger lines above the stave.