I
The Dane! the Dane! The heathen Dane
Is wasting Hampshire's coast again--
From ravaged church and plundered farm
Flash the dread beacons of alarm--
Fly, helpless peasants, fly!
Ytene's green banks and forest shades,
Her heathery slopes and gorse-clad glades
Re-echo to the cry--
Where is the King, whose strong right hand
Hath oft from danger freed the land?
Nor fleet nor covenant avails
To drive aloof those pirate sails,
In vain is Alfred's sword;
Vain seems in every sacred fane
The chant--'From fury of the Dane,
Deliver us, good Lord.'