The oak is Britain's pride!
The lordliest of trees,
The glory of her forest side,
The guardian of her seas!
Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,
To brave the wintry breeze.
Our hearts shall never quail
Below the servile yoke,
Long as our seamen trim the sail,
And wake the battle smoke--
Long as they stem the stormy gale,
On planks of British oak!
Then in its native mead,
The golden acorn lay;
And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed,
In some far future day!
Oh! plant the acorn tree
Upon each Briton's grave;
So shall our island ever be,
The island of the brave--
The mother-nurse of liberty,
And empress o'er the wave!