When Britain first at Heav'n's command
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain;
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee,
Shall in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
Still mor majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame,
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
They cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to juide the fair.
Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves.
Rule Britannia
(poem) by James Thompson (1700-48)
When Britain first, at heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian Angels sung this strain:
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.
The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful, from each foreign stroke:
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down,
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe, and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Jacobite version
Britannia, rouse at Heav'n's command!
And crown thy native Prince again;
Then Peace shall bless thy happy land,
And plenty pour in from the rnain:
Then shalt thou be - Britannia, thou shalt be
From home and foreign tyrants free.
Behold, great Charles! thy godlike son,
With majesty and sweetness crowned;
His worth th'admiring world doth own,
And fame's loud trump proclaims the sound.
Thy captain him, Britannia, him declare.
Of kings and heroes he's the heir.
Then, Britons, rouse! with trurnpets' sound
Proclaim this solemn, happy day'.
Let mirth with cheerful music crowned
Drive sullen thoughts and cares away!
Come, Britons, sing! Britannia, draw thy sword!
And use it for thy rightful lord!