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 Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear— Go, stay the lightning in its wing'd career! No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, Then bid thy legions all their power combine! Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, E'en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn!

Ye sons of Albion! first in danger's field, The sword of Britain and of truth to wield! Still prompt the injured to defend and save, Appal the despot, and assist the brave; Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, The cause of Justice and Castile to aid! Ye sons of Albion! by your country's name, Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame; Oh! by the shades of Cressy's martial dead, By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled; By honours gain'd on Blenheim's fatal plain, By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain; By the bright laurels immortal won, Undaunted spirit! valour's favourite son! By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime, Renown'd from zone to zone, from clime to clime; Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise A deathless monument to future days!