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ENGLISH WARSONG.
139
The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn,
He shall eat the bread of common scorn;
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear,
Shall be steeped in his own salt tear:
Far better, far better he never were born
Than to shame merry England here.
He shall eat the bread of common scorn;
It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear,
Shall be steeped in his own salt tear:
Far better, far better he never were born
Than to shame merry England here.
Chorus.—Shout for England! &c.
There standeth our ancient enemy;
Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy!
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise:
They stream like fire in the skies;
Hold up the Lion of England on high
Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.
Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy!
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise:
They stream like fire in the skies;
Hold up the Lion of England on high
Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.
Chorus.—Shout for England! &c.
