When Britain first at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main;
Arose, arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter, the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain;
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee,
Shall in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
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.
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.