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The Song Book
The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall; While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule Britannia, &c.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke j As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak, Rule Britannia, &c.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame, All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame ; But work their woe, and thy renown. Rule Britannia, &c.
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, &c.
The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy court repair; Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts, to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, &c.
Words by Thomson. Tune by Arne. |
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