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Britannia needs no bulwark,
no tow'r along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-wave,
her home is on the deep:
With thunder from her native oak,
she squells the floods below,
Like the roar on the shore,
when the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of Britain,
shall yet terrific burn!
Till danger's troubled night depart,
and the star of peace return;
Then, then ye ocean-warriors,
our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
when the trumpets cease to blow.
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
and the tempests cease to blow.
THE KING'S ANTHEM.
Fame let thy trumpet sound!
Tell all the world around
Great George is King!
Tell Rome, and France, and Spain,
Brittannia scorns their chain;
