When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain:
_Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!
For Britons never will be slaves._

The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
_Rule, Britannia!_ etc.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blasts that tear the skies
Serve but to root thy native oak.
_Rule, Britannia!_ etc.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe--but thy renown.
_Rule, Britannia!_ etc.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
_Rule, Britannia!_ etc.