When Britain first, at [bad word] Arose from out the azure main;
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang this strain:
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»

2
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.
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»

3
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.
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»

4
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.
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»

5
To thee belongs [bad word] reign;
Thy cities shall [bad word] shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»

6
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crown’d,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
 [bad word]  [bad word] the waves:
«Britons never will be slaves.»