Ye legions of England, supernal in glory,

   The sons of the mighty and lords of the main,

Awake to the lustre of ballad and story,

   And drench the torn earth with your enemies slain!

Too long have we falter’d in kindly illusion,

   Too long have we pleaded for justice and right,

Too dim have we seen thro’ a combat’s confusion

   The death of our dreams and the triumph of might.

Untaught by the delicate precepts of time,

   Untouch’d by the centuries’ softening finger,

See the shade of Arminius defiantly linger,

   And mock the soft world with his wassail of crime.

Whilst we shrink in disgust at the carnage and clamour,

   And defend our lov’d ground in incredulous woe,

Hear the gay, ghastly swing of Thor’s thundering hammer,

   As his children delight in each dastardly blow!

Not a steeple or dome knows the Hun’s veneration;

   Not a relic or shrine can restrain his mad hand;

Not a scruple or law stems his wild profanation,

   As exultant he stalks thro’ the sore-stricken land.

‘Tis the blood of the past that is raging within him,

   The hot blood of pillagers ruthless and bold;

The murderous madness he summons to win him

   Such a realm as would glad his stern fathers of old.

Can we patiently stand in our honour and meekness,

   And hope to prevail against forces like these;

When mercy is folly and pity is weakness,

   And black-shrouded hate haunts the plains and the seas?

What strength can we draw from our modest position?

   What watchword have we to inflame the slow mind?

What passion of ours may reduce to submission

   The blond beast of the barracks, beserker and blind?

Shall our ardour be stirr’d but by doctrine and sermon,

   By high thoughts of liberty, abstract and grave?

Shall we frown on the War-Lord, but love each poor German

   Who bows to his sceptre, a glad willing slave?

Shall we cherish the monsters that slaughter and ravage?

   Forgive their red sins and condone their dark plan?

Shall we open their hearts to the fiend and the savage,

   And name him our brother, our dear fellow-man?

Shall we lecture and wail at the tyrant’s oppression;

   With leaden hearts labour to stem the black tide;

Shall we prate of the law whilst he glows with possession,

   Nor avenge the mourn’d hosts that have suffer’d and died?

Come, rise, ye bold Britons, on Victory’s pinion,

   Recall the proud blood that leaps warm in your veins;

Your country was fashion’d for pow’r and dominion,

   Your Muse was created for high martial strains!

Forget not your birthright of greatness and valour,

   Forget not the might that your fathers could wield;

Forget not the foemen who trembled in pallor

   When Saxons and Normans appeared on the field!

For our blood is the same the vandals are vaunting;

   We too are the stout sons of Woden and Thor;

Our past is their past—let no fervour be wanting

   To expand us with pride and exalt us in war!

When Hengist and Horsa our blessed isle gain’d us,

   Like feathers before us the poor Celts were blown:

What native resisted, what chieftain restrain’d us,

   As we swept from the land ev’ry race but our own?

Alfadur smil’d sweet on our fair-flashing sabre,

   And roar’d with delight as we smote the base foe;

He laugh’d as we vanquish’d each insolent neighbour,

   And drank deep to the health of the English long bow.

So spring up again at the challenge of madness,

   To the ages proclaim that the past is not dead;

Let the javeline be flung more in glee than in sadness,

   And a wild song of conquest lend wings to our lead.

As our battle-brave Beowulf, valiant and joyous,

   Slew monsters and dragons that threaten’d his realm;

So must we face the serpents that seek to destroy us,

   And with spirit as light, ev’ry fiend overwhelm!

Let us redden each stream with the blood of our foemen,

   And gorge the lean wolves with the wretches we slay;

Let the buzzards be hail’d as a glad welcome omen,

   As they circle above us, awaiting their prey!

What is Death to the hero of courage and spirit,

   Whose soul to his country full loyalty gives:

What Briton so base not to heed it or fear it,

   If he knew that Old England in triumph yet lives?

See the sons of Britannia surge forth in their splendour

   From the dear native isle and the far distant shore;

From the plains of Columbia behold the defender

   Rise proud by the side of the mother once more!

In the cloud-laden skies the Valkyries are soaring

   And calling the brave to their long blissful rest;

On the struggle-scarr’d field our stern legions are pouring,

   Each hot for the fray, and prepar’d for the test.

So onward, bold Saxons, who carry behind ye

   A valorous heritage none can excel;

May the shades of your world-winning fathers remind ye

   To rival their glories, and battle as well!