Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/1047

 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?

Ever the faith endures,
 * England, my England:—

'Take and break us: we are yours,
 * England, my own!

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:

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!