‘Mother, what need of a word For the love that outspake with the sword? In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers, When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours, They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’ We bring thee a deed for a word.
But thou, O mother, be strong, In thy seas for a girdle of towers, Holding thine own from wrong, Thine own that is ours. Till the sons that are bone of thy bone, Till the brood of the lion upgrown In a day not long, Shall war for our England’s own, For the pride of the ocean throne, Be strong, O mother, be strong!’
What have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you’ve done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures, England, my England:-- ‘Take us and break us: we are yours, England, my own! Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky: Death is death; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- To the stars on your bugles blown!’
They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mailed hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, There’s the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
Free as the wind that leaps from out the North, When storms are hurrying forth, Up-springs the voice of England, trumpet-clear, Which all the world shall hear, As one may hear God’s thunder over-head,-- A voice that echoes through the sunset red, And through the fiery portals of the morn Where, day by day, the golden hours are born,-- A voice to urge the strengthening of the bands That bind our Empire Lands With such a love as none shall put to scorn!