WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

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 r

��Ever the faith endures,

England, my England : 4 Take and break us : we are yours,

England, my own i 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 i

You whose mail'd 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 !

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