A/n: This was written for sweethearts week (the music day) and just like everything else I write in one go that's longer than 3000 words it gets a litter derpy. But hey, I got to write historical fiction~ I've missed writing this kind of stuff so much! And not a drop of smut to be seen. It makes me feel so much better about myself that I can still write not-porn.
America's first music was the sound of nature. It's such a hippie-granola thing to say, but it's true. He has memories, although fragmented, of a time before he was concerned with civilization or society. The first few years of his life were spent running through the wilderness, unconcerned with anything but the present moment. He would spend whole days lying on the forest floor, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, listening to the birds and the wind moving through the trees. That was a rarity, though. Normally he slept through the day, finding a wolf pack or bear or something to cuddle up next to, and moved about at night when his friends were awake.
It was a good life and a simple one. But that all started to change one night when he cam across a massive den made of dead trees. He peeked into the opening and saw a huge pack of very strange creatures inside. They had fur like a deer's, but the skin seemed loose, like it wasn't fully attached. The skin that wasn't loose, which was only to be found around their faces and front paws and on some of their chests, was light brown. They had tufts of black fur on their heads that in most cases were several feet long. It looked like a few of them even grew feathers with the black fur! They stood on their hind legs and waved their front paws around like a swan trying to scare a predator away from is nest. America privately thought that they were some of the ugliest things he had ever seen.
He was curious, though. How had they made such a big den, and why would they have done so when there were so many caves nearby? Why was it so bright in their den? They seemed to be making their own light, but how? It came from this constantly-shifting orange thing, but what was it? They were moving around the orange thing, jumping on their hind legs and making noises. Were they playing? Fighting for dominance? But there were so many of them doing it at once…
It was the noise that really pulled him closer. He knew all sorts of sounds, from the crying of a loon at dawn to an acorn falling into a river, but he had never heard anything like this. There were almost-birdsongs but no birds to be found, thuds that resonated like a falling tree wouldn't, a rattle not from a snake that shook in time to the other noises. That was the strangest thing about it: all of this was in time. The movements, the shouts, and all the weird noises all happened in synch with each other. He'd never heard this sort of coordination of sound, even from the birds who could fly by the thousands and not touch each other. He had to get closer to these strange, ugly creatures.
It was a mother who sat away from the circle nursing her young that noticed him first. She held the baby close and got into a defensive position, as they were apt to do. She let out a sharp cry, probably a warning to not to get closer. He cocked his head to the side and told her he was just curious. Her eyes widened and she stood and ran to the rest of the pack.
The sounds stopped. Hey, he'd liked those! America frowned and hoped they'd start again soon. The mother chattered quickly to another pack member, probably the alpha male from the way the others looked at him. How could he be an alpha, though, if he moved with such difficulty? The maybe-alpha approached him.
"You are English?" He asked.
America jumped. He used words. How could he do that? America had never met another living thing that could actually speak. What were these ugly things?
"I ask again," The maybe-alpha said, "You are English?"
"I'm Amewica." America said, not sure exactly what an English was.
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhewe," America said.
"Where is your village?"
"My what?"
He kneeled so that he was at America's level, "Little boy, where you slept last night?"
"I sweep duwing the day."
"Then where you slept yesterday?"
"In the woods. I always sweep in the woods or caves. Pwaiwie is too open. What if it wains?"
The maybe-alpha stood and returned to the others. They chattered back and forth. This time America listened, recognizing that they weren't exchanging random noises, but syllables. He heard the not-alpha say his name. Were they speaking with words that America didn't know?
"It's a different language," His mind supplied, "They're speaking their own language because they're a different people."
America shook his head. How did he know that?
"Little boy, America," The not-alpha called, "Come here!"
America did as he was told, knowing better than to not obey a high-ranking member.
"This is Onatah," He said gesturing to a woman standing next to him, "She will care for you until we find an English village."
"H-hello," She said, smiling nervously, "I speak little English. I have boy you age. You be happy."
"O-okay," America said, not sure if it was meant to comfort him or as a command.
Either way he was. He got along with the People of the Longhouse – for that was what they called themselves – surprisingly well. Maybe it was because they were so similar. Although he had thought they were ugly at first because of the loose skins, he quickly learned that those were clothes: coverings to keep them warm and dry. Beneath them their bodies were fairly normal. In fact, they looked more like America than any other species he'd ever encountered.
It probably also helped that they welcomed him with open arms and he repaid them by learning all he could and helping with chores. He had to start being awake during the day, but he could see better that way anyhow. He picked up their language quickly and after a month was able to sort of hold a conversation, even if he had to supplement with English (which was apparently the word for words. Who knew?) or pantomime. He played games with his new brother and the other children that were much more complicated than what he'd done with pups or cubs and learned how to hunt and fish with tools.
But of all the things that they introduced him to his favorite had to be music. The earth had a million breathtaking sights that no living thing could match, but it was no musician. There were no harmonies, no drumbeats in nature. He didn't know how it had been so neglected when the world was created, but he was glad people came around and added it. He learned their songs more quickly than he learned their language. He wasn't the best singer or dancer, but Mom (as he had started to call Ohatah) said that he had passion and that was what mattered anyway.
Eventually, though, it had to end because eventually they found a settlement that wanted him. He didn't want to leave, but mom assured him that he would be best off with his own people. And so, he started living with a fat old woman who moved like a bear and smelled like one too.
"I cannot believe those savages! Kidnapping you as a baby and then having the gall to claim you wandered into their camp one day!"
"But it's twue, Miss Ewickson!"
"And now they're even getting you to say that!" She stroked his hair and kissed his temple, "But don't worry. As long as you stay with me you'll be perfectly fine."
She took his old clothes and gave him a white, easily stained dress instead. Then she went to start washing dishes, singing softly to herself like a crow.
It was then that he decided that he couldn't stay with her. Once night fell he crept down the stairs and ran and ran until he couldn't run anymore. After that he just went back to his old way of life, but it wasn't the same. After he learned about humans and their language and their music, life in the wild just seemed too simple. That was why when he saw those strange young men with their fancy, colorful clothes he came up to play with them and why he was willing to stay with England once he became his little brother.
Still, when the time came he was nervous about going to live with him. After all, what if he just stuck him back with another fat bear crow lady? But that didn't happen. Instead he brought him far away from the village to a huge mansion on a hill.
"This is my house," He said, "We'll be living together here from now on."
America wasn't sure what to do. There were only the two of them and the house was so big! Even being in his room was large enough to make him feel exposed and unsafe. He had to try to get used to it, though. After all, he was England's colony (whatever that meant) and this was where he was supposed to be. He had a duty to uphold and stuff. He wasn't quite sure what that meant, but England seemed nice and America liked him so he wanted to make him happy.
He tried. He really did. He ate England's food and tried not to cry when he was upset and obeyed him to the best of his abilities. He even slept all alone for the first time in his life even if it was scary and he would always wake up in the middle of the night shaking with fear.
It went well for the first week or so. Then there was a huge storm. The wind and rain lashed against the windows. Lightning tore apart the sky the same way that the following thunder tore apart America's ears. He knew he was safe in the house, that the cold couldn't get in and that lightning wasn't dangerous unless you were under a tree, but it didn't make him feel any less scared.
He got out of bed and went down the hall. England said he'd protect him. Did that include from fear? He found England sitting up in bed reading a book.
"America?" He asked, "What are you doing here? You know it's past your bedtime."
"I can't sweep."
"Why not?" A pinch of concern entered his voice and he set the book down.
"I'm scawed."
England smiled and held out his hands, "Come here, lovely."
America clambered into bed and clung to him.
England held him back and stroked his hair, "I know the storm is scary, but you're safe here."
"I know, Engwand. But I'm still scawed. I don't wanna be awone."
"Oh…" He pulled away and looked at America for a moment before smiling, "You can stay with me tonight."
"Yay!" America shouted, pulling England close again.
England laughed and ran a hand down America's spine. He leaned over and blew out the candle and then arranged them both so that they were under the covers together. America kept his face buried in England's shirt. It felt good to be with him, better than being with the animals or the Indians. He smelled good, like rain and the sea and safety.
The wind still screeched. The thunder still roared. The rain still pounded. It just didn't matter anymore, not when England was so big and warm and solid all around him. His heartbeat was slow but strong in America's ear, gently lulling him to sleep. Then he went a step further, humming softly as he nuzzled America's hair. The vibrations resonated deep in his chest, relaxing America further. Then he opened his mouth and began to sing.
"Lavender's blue, dilly-dilly, lavender's green. When I am king, dilly-dilly, you will be queen…"
He'd never heard anything like it. It wasn't like Miss Erickson's cawing or the Indians' earthy, soulful music. It was light and soft and smooth like mist over a lake at dawn. America smiled and decided that he liked it quite a bit.
It quickly became routine for the two of them to sleep together at least one night a week, up to every other day. Even on the nights when they didn't England would come into his room and sing. Of course, England tried for variety. He'd learned a lot of songs in his well over one-thousand years of existence, but Lavender's Blue always remained America's favorite.
America grew quickly for a nation. It was only a few years until even his biggest dresses were almost embarrassingly short and tight around his shoulders.
"England, can I have some new clothes?" He asked one day as he came down for breakfast. He grabbed the hem of his skirt, which was all the way up to his mid-thigh.
"America," He sighed, turning to look at him, "Do you really need-" He saw the unimpressed look on America's face and looked him up and down. "Oh, I suppose you do." He swallowed, "Will you come here for a moment?"
"Sure." America walked over obediently and allowed England to place a hand on his head and trace it over to himself. America took a step back and realized he was already up to England's mid-belly.
"My God, you're huge. When did this happen?"
America giggled, "I told you I was a big boy."
"Yes you are, I suppose. Actually," He smiled, "I think you've outgrown dresses all together."
"Really?" America grinned up at him.
"Really. After we finish breakfast I'll take you into town and we'll pay a visit to the tailor."
America was so excited he could barely eat. He'd been looking forward to being breeched for almost twenty years, hoping and hoping that he'd get big enough to be treated like a boy. Well, he'd finally done it! It took longer to make and eat porridge that day than it ever had before. Once they were actually on the road he swore it doubled in length. Eventually, though, they made it to town. There was a flurry of activity as they picked what they wanted and paid. Then he was told to stand on a stool as the tailor poked pins through the cloth to mark where he had to take in the fabric. England left, promising to return when they were done. He had a twinkle in his eye that promised nothing but trouble, but America didn't care. Nothing else mattered when he was finally getting boy's clothes!
"Alright," The tailor said after what felt like ten hours of waiting, "These should hopefully fit you well." He handed America his new clothes.
"Can I change here?" America asked.
"Sure."
America quickly went into the corner behind the curtain and took off his dress for the last time before finally getting to put on his new boy's clothes. He looked down at himself and giggled. He looked like England now, didn't he? The sensation of cloth between his legs was new and strange but he loved it. He placed his hands on his chest and felt the fabric from the outside. He could hardly believe this was real.
He heard the bell jingle as the door opened.
"Is Alfred still here?"
"Arthur!" America shouted, throwing the curtain to the side and rushing to England's side, "How do I look?"
"Much better. It was certainly high time we brought you here," He smiled at the tailor, "Thank you, sir."
"No, thank you."
America allowed them to shake hands before basically pushing England out the door. He wanted to go home and look in the big mirror in England's room!
"Ugh, will you just wait a moment, Alfred?"
"Come on, we gotta go!"
"But I have a surprise for you, lad. Close your eyes."
"I don't like surprises!"
"You'll like this one. I promise."
"But Arthur-"
"If you whine I'll take it back and not give it to you."
America huffed but closed his eyes. "Oh, alright."
"Good boy." England led him outside. "Now wait here for a moment."
America stood there with his eyes closed, not daring to peek. He heard a horse approaching and rocked back and forth, hoping it was England.
"Alright, you can open your eyes."
He gasped when he saw what England had brought him. He had the reins to his horse in one hand and in the other he held those of a young chestnut mare.
"You bought me a horse? Oh my god, England, you bought me a horse!"
England grinned, ignoring the fact America had called him that in public. "Her name is Bethany. She cost quite a bit, so I hope you'll take good care of her."
"Of course I will!" He ran over and hugged her. She didn't seem to mind the fact that a boy had flung himself around her neck and just reached down to nibble his hair. America laughed, "I think she likes me!"
"Has there ever been an animal on God's green earth that hasn't?" England asked.
America looked up long enough to see that England had a bag attached to England's horse's saddle.
"What's that?" He asked.
"There's more to your surprise."
"I get boy clothes and a horse AND something else? This is the best day ever!"
England laughed nervously, "I'm not so sure you'll like this as much."
"Don't care. Best day ever. Can you help me up? I wanna ride!"
England held him around his middle and placed him in Bethany's saddle. "We're going to have to start slowly. Directing a horse is harder than just riding one."
"I know, I know." America's hands trembled as he took the reins in his hand. He knew that he'd have to learn to walk with it first, but he couldn't help but dream of what it would be like when he could make her gallop, what it would be like to lay flat on her back, going a million miles an hour.
England climbed onto his own horse and turned him around, "Do you know the basic commands?"
America rolled his eyes, "Of course. I've only sat in your lap like a million times."
Then England rolled his eyes, "And I'm certain the one time I don't explain something you'll end up dead in a ditch somewhere."
America ignored him and urged Bethany to start walking.
By the end of the ride he was overwhelmed with curiosity. He knew that he should have been happy with either the clothes or the horse and euphoric he'd gotten both. Under normal circumstances he would have been, but with the promise of more it was impossible. He began badgering England about what was in the bag before the house was in sight. England let out a sigh of relief as they rounded the final bend. Even more slowly than he'd made breakfast, he brought the horses into the stable.
"Don't open this. I still have to take care of these two." He said, handing the parcel to America.
Ooh… it was heavy! What did he get him? America bounced on the balls of his feet. He wanted to look or at least to feel it so that he could guess.
"My God," England said, throwing some hay into the horse's reach, "You look like you're about to wet yourself."
"Nope. I'm just that excited!"
"Alright, England sighed, "Let's go into the sitting room. Once we're both there you can open it."
"Yeah!" America bolted and then had to wait for England to walk into the room at a snail's pace.
"Alright then," He said, sitting in his favorite chair, "Go ahead."
America very carefully opened the bag. There was a weird lumpy-shaped box, a small rectangular box, and a whole lot of books in it.
"What's this for?" America asked
"I told you that you might not like this as much. I feel as though it's time for you to begin studying."
"What kind of studying?" America asked, looking through the books.
"Well, you ought to be able to read and your sums could use some work. We'll start from there and then branch out. That smaller box is a pen and ink set that we'll use."
"What's this one, though?" He asked, picking up the lumpy-shaped box.
"That one should be more interesting. Open it."
America carefully undid the latches and stopped breathing for a moment when he saw the handsome chestnut instrument inside, "E-England… Is this a fiddle?" He asked, gingerly picking the instrument up by the neck.
"A violin, please. But yes. Since you like music I thought I should teach you how to play some yourself."
"Wow…" He ran one hand over the body, feeling the holes.
He took a deep breath and swallowed. He felt like he was going to cry. It was almost too much. But no, he was old enough to be treated like a boy and he should act like one.
Screech!
"Dammit, America!"
"Sorry!"
"Do it gently," England said, picking up his own violin. "Like this." He quickly played a simple melody. "You used to be so much better at this."
"Well sorry if I'm mad you're leaving me here!"
England sighed, "America, I've been here for thirty years. I made sure that you can take care of yourself. I have my own country to take care of. I can't just sit here and play with you for a century."
"Why not?"
He set down a violin and placed his hand on America's shoulder, "I have other responsibilities. I would love to stay here with you, but I can't."
"But I-"
"My boat leaves tomorrow and I am going to be on it. That's final."
"But-"
"I said that's final. Now let's go back to this. I want you to get it right before I leave."
"Fine," America said. He picked up the violin again and after a few tries managed to replicate the song with only a few squeaks.
England seemed pacified and they simply enjoyed each other's company for the rest of the time until England had to go to the docks. As soon as the ship left America went back home and picked up the violin. The violin would never have the same timbre and fullness that England's voice did, but it wasn't as pathetic as America's voice.
He spent hours and hours working until he'd figured out how to play that melody perfectly. He played it over and over, ignoring the tears that streamed down his face.
"Lavender's blue," The violin sang, "dilly-dilly, lavender's green…"
The next time he saw England he was taller than him. It was only by an inch or so, but he was taller! He read all the time, he could do all sorts of math in his head, and he'd gotten to the point where he could play every song he knew. He thought that England would be proud of him. But as he sat him down and played a fast-paced sea shanty, England just sighed and looked away.
It was only ten years later that he set down his violin and took up a fife and musket instead, first for England and then a few years later against him.
After a while they became friends again, at first because of trade and then because of ideals. In the 1880's they started to be able to be in the same room for more than five minutes, but the only music that either of them heard was the all-encompassing sound of industrialization and the blaze of guns meant to protect their empires.
It wasn't until the 1920's that England heard America play again. They weren't getting along too well that decade, but there was something about America's culture that drew him in. It was a combination of the risqué sexual nature of the speakeasies and their mystique, most likely. It both distracted him from and reminded him of the cultural revolution in his own country. Besides, he needed to make a new friend since he was done with Japan. After all, only one of them could own the oceans and England didn't like the way he looked at everyone, like they were rabbits and he a starved wolf.
And so he was visiting America in Chicago. They had been planning to go out on the town, but it was pouring. England didn't mind the rain, but America refused to get his feet wet. So instead, they were at his house, talking about films and novels.
Then, all of a sudden, America said, "Hey, you know I have a piano?"
"What?" It was such a sudden turn in conversation that it took England completely by surprise.
"I have a piano." He grinned. "Come on. I'll show you!"
England followed him to find that he had, in fact, somehow gotten a baby grand piano into his penthouse apartment.
He scoffed, "Who are you, Austria?"
"Nope," America said, sitting on the bench. "Austria is all like," he played the beginning of Fur Elise, "But I'm all like," And then suddenly he changed his style all together, using combinations of notes and chords that England hadn't heard in hundreds of years and tripling the tempo.
"You like that?" He asked, sliding his fingers along the white keys.
"What is it?"
"It's called jazz. This is what they play in the speakeasies. Comes from New Orleans. Isn't it awesome?"
"It's… interesting." England wasn't sure if he liked old church music being turned around like that, since he had a lot of unpleasant memories tied to religion, but he had to admit that there was something to the way that America of all people was bringing back something so outdated.
He changed the melody again, making it slow and bittersweet, "I learned piano just for this. There's so much you can do with one. You can't get this range of notes anywhere else."
"Right," England said, thinking back to that old violin and thinking that it had probably met its fate at the bottom of a cliff somewhere in the late 1700's.
"You know, if this storm clears up tomorrow I'll take you out and show you what real jazz is like. I've been trying, but I'm not that good at it. They play in huge bands too. You wouldn't believe it." He smiled, "It's really fun to dance to. I might have to teach you."
England laughed, "What, the two of us dancing together?"
"Why not?" America asked, "Anything goes. Women smoke, cut their hair short, and show almost all of their legs. I've seen plenty of men doing more than just dancing."
"And no one does anything?"
"No one cares. This is one of those wild and crazy decades that happens ever fifty years or so." He pulled one hand away to prop up his head, "'Sides, it's not like you don't know about that."
"Are you suggesting something?" England asked, blushing.
America laughed, "I'm saying that your people don't have the cleanest record as far as sex is concerned." He laughed again, "Dirty old man."
"You're the one who's rattling off about every fifty years!"
"'Cause you're in denial."
"Oh, shut up."
America shrugged and looked out the window.
"Did he mean something by that?" England asked himself, "Any of that?"
He noticed that familiar melody playing and chose not to comment on it. He didn't even know if America was doing it on purpose.
The second of the supposed War to End all Wars was over and England was dying. He could feel his wealth and power slipping, everything he'd once claimed going to America. Wasn't it perfectly fitting that the one he would willingly give everything to was the one who was taking it?
He looked like a skeleton. He was certain that if someone would shine a light at him they would be able to see right through him to the other side. One of these days he'd say goodbye to someone and never speak to them again. He didn't even want to sleep because he was terrified he wouldn't wake up again. He just hoped that death would wait until he finally did sleep so that he didn't have to face a painful or humiliating end.
There was a sharp knock on the door, "Yo, England! You alive in there?"
He sighed. Hadn't he just asked for not painful and humiliating? Well, what else could he do? He limped over and answered the door. There was America, looking bigger and more radiant than ever. England remembered what it was like, to gain momentum and keep getting stronger until no one could touch you. But the fall… If he could take it all back and return to being a normal little country he certainly would.
"What do you want?" He demanded.
"Well, I just wanted to say hi since I was over here to check up on Germany, but now," His face fell, "I think I'd better check up more on you instead. You look like shit."
"No really?" England asked, "Well if you came to mock me, go away! I just want to die in peace."
"Woah!" America stepped inside and turned on the light, "Nobody said anything about mocking or dying! You're going through a rough time, but it'll be okay!"
He gave a dry laugh, "Don't you know your history, boy? Don't you know what happened to Rome?"
"You're not Rome, though," He closed the door, "You're England."
"Same principle." He sat on the sofa, "Countries become empires, we grow too big, and we die trying to cling to our hegemony."
"Turkey lived." America pointed out.
"I'm not Turkey."
"You're not Rome either."
This had to be the end, America was making sense. Still, he wasn't quite weak enough yet to admit to it. "You don't know how this feels, America," He smiled weakly. "I can feel it. It's coming and there's nothing anyone can do about it."
America bristled, "We'll see about that! I'm gonna make you better if it's the last thing I do!"
"Please don't put another hamburger on my head."
"I was messing with you then. This is serious. Go put on your pajamas and get into bed."
England rolled his eyes, but arguing with America might have been enough to kill him at that point, so he did as he was told. Once he was in bed America came in.
"Now, you're sick, so you have to rest."
"Yes, mummy."
"You're not gonna sleep, are you?"
"I'd rather not."
America pulled the covers back and slid in beside him.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm going to watch you. As long as the hero's here nothing bad can happen!"
"Because I feel completely safe in the arms of an idiot who could accidentally crush a train car."
"You should be." He nuzzled England's hair like England would when he was young, "Now sleep."
England reached over and turned the lamp off. At least this way his body wouldn't rot. As soon as it was dark he felt a rush of emotion. He didn't want to die. He wasn't ready. He couldn't just- His body stiffened and tears began to well up in his eyes.
As if he sensed his distress, America began to sing. And, of course, what else would he sing?
"Lavender's blue, dilly-dilly, Lavender's green. When I am king, dilly-dilly, you will be queen…"
He really did start to cry then. Honestly, what rot.
To his surprise, he did wake up although it wasn't until the next afternoon. He sat up and touched himself, simply to check that he wasn't a ghost. He held a hand to his face and felt the air hitting his palm as he exhaled. He laughed out loud to himself, unsure if it was from the pure joy that he had lived through the night or how ludicrous it was he was that happy simply to have woken up.
He heard a screech from the other room and stopped laughing. It took the screech and then the silence for him to realize that there had been music. There were footsteps from outside and then a very tired-looking America burst into the room.
He looked at him and smiled, "See? I told you it would be okay. You look better already!" His voice was rough and uncharacteristically quiet.
What really caught England's attention, though, was the violin that he held in his hand. That old, beat up, seventieth century violin.
"You kept it." He said.
"Yeah." America replied, "I couldn't bear to get rid of it."
He swallowed. What if… "America?" He asked timidly
"Yes?" He sat on the edge of England's bed.
"Did you sleep last night?"
America smiled and shook his head, "I sang until my voice gave out at two. Then I started with this." He gestured to the violin.
"You planned this," England accused flatly.
"Well, not all of it."
"How much?"
"I was gonna sing and play for you. I knew that you weren't feeling so hot, but I didn't think it was this bad."
"Why?"
"Well, I mean, you looked perfectly fine the last time I saw you."
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
America looked absolutely terrified for a moment, England stiffened, unsure of why. America took a deep breath, "I know I'm not good at showing my feelings or anything, but I love you." He took one of England's hands, "I have loved you for a long time. I didn't know how else to tell you."
"How long?" England asked.
America held his gaze steadily, "Since I knew how."
"All that time?"
He smiled sheepishly "Why do you think I kept my A's?"
England wrapped his arms around him, "You idiot. You absolute bloody romantic idiot."
America laughed, "I'll take that as a yes."
When they pulled apart America picked up his bow and began to play again. England took that as an invitation to sing back. He'd always wanted the chance to harmonize anyway.
A/n: Just some historical notes (this is what my research said. If I'm wrong, because I didn't do very much research, feel free to correct me and I'll fix things as best I can)
-Lavender's Blue (or Lavender Blue depending on who you talk to) is an English folk song. The earliest printed version of the song dates back to the 1680's, but the tune was already in existence. The actual original is a bit risqué with it not becoming a kid's song until the 1800s. However, I went with it anyway because I love the song, no one knows what the actual original words were, and a lot of times people will just sing anything with a nice melody to children no matter how child-friendly they may be (rock a bye, anyone?)
-"Breeching" refers to the first time a boy would be given male clothes. From the 15th century to the late 19th century boys would wear dresses until they reached the "age of reason" (Usually seven, but actual ages ranged from two to eight. It was all pretty arbitrary). It was a huge deal and seen as a right of passage where young boys started to gain some responsibilities they would have as men, hence America's excitement and all the other stuff England gave him.
-Although in 1921 Britain terminated its alliance to Japan in favor of being in America's good graces, their relationship actually wasn't that good at the time, partially because of all the domestic issues both were dealing with.
-The combinations of notes and chords that England's referring to are modes, preceded keys. Originally they were used in church music but fell out of use during the baroque period (I think it was this one or the one just before) when they began to play with keys. However, modes were resurrected in jazz to give it all of those unusual chords you don't hear in "normal" music.
-About A's: During the colonial period Brits actually used a shorter A-sound, which we consider American. For some reason, when the English switched to an aah it stayed short in America.