Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the sun
Across the land and in your fields the tree-lined [bad word] But in your heart what light is there, what grows [bad word] to flower?
Does mind grow cold, do weakened hands let slip their ancient power?

Albion, I see you now, once noble, high and fair,
Your greatness gone, your wealth dispersed, as empty as the air,
What wasting sickness [bad word] so at the flesh beneath the skin,
Took might and honour at a stroke, and withered from within?

Albion, a sapling tall, but one that dies, not grows!
The greater tree you left to fall, but now your own sap slows!
The [bad word] to all that lives, the Ice that slays the root,
If Spring will ever shine again, will you still bear a shoot?

Albion, if worth remain, if aught is left to show,
The smallest leaf, the slightest bud from ancient bark to grow,
The gain is worth the sacrifice, the battle worth the slain,
But will your spirit yet endure the healing stroke of pain?