O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long,
And his hate is a deadly thing;
It was held in his heart till its growth was strong,
Now, words have woven it into a song
For little children to sing.

It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell,
And hatred hid death in the sea;
In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell
O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell,
And the humble-hearted be.

Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky
In a fury of smoke and flame;
His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,-
He hath shown no pity to those who die
For the glory of his name.

He sealed his hate with the blood of his men-
O, the young in their coats of grey!-
They are cast aside, and in river, and fen,
Deep-hidden, where none will find them again
Till the last white judgment day.

Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead;
The world hath accepted its pain;
Still, over old battlefields, newly red,
The shattered ranks of his army are led
In pomp and a high disdain.

Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great,
O England! thou well beloved land;
When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,-
And the angel who stands before the gate,
The sword of flame in his hand!