They wreathe round thy altars the trophies of war.
For London! for London! the home of the free,
There's no part in the world, royal London, like thee!
"Oh, London! when we, who exulting behold
Thy splendour and wealth, in the dust shall be cold,
May sages, and heroes, and patriots unborn,
Thy altars defend, and thy annals adorn!
May thy power be supreme on the land of the brave,
The feeble to succour, the fallen to save,
And the sons and the daughters now cradled by thee,