When Britain first, at heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land, And guardian Angels sung this strain: "Rule,
Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
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, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful, from each foreign stroke:
As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. "Rule,
Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
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, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
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, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. "Rule,
Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
