Of yore, the brave and true,
When the bow was bent on Cressy’s field,
And the yeoman’s arrow flew.
And proudly hath it floated
Through the battles of the sea,
When the red-cross flag o’er smoke-wreaths play’d
Like the lightning in its glee.
On rock, on wave, on bastion,
Its echoes have been known;
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low