Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crown’d

Rule Britannia!

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command:

Arose from out the azure main; (arose from out the azure main,)

This was the charter, the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sang this strain:

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee:

Must in their turns, to the tyrants fall; (must in their turns, to the tyrants fall,)

While thou shalt flourish, flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise:

More dreadful, from each foreign stroke; (more dreadful from each foreign stroke,)

As the loud blast that, loud blast that tears the skies,

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:

All their attempts to bend thee down; (all their attempts to bend thee down,)

Will but arouse thy, arouse thy generous flame,

But work their woe, and thy renown.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

To thee belongs the rural reign:

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; (thy cities shall with commerce shine,)

All thine shall be the, shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

The Muses, still with freedom found:

Shall to thy happy coast repair; (shall to thy happy coast repair,)

Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crown’d,

And many hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.