1

    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.»