In every land beneath the sun the British bugles sound;
Her warships ride on every sea, her flag flies far and near,
Mother of nations is she still, to all her children dear.
. . . . . . .
“God Save the King,” the people cry, and ’tis no empty sound—
He’s loved and honoured for his worth the whole wide world around.
Despotic power he’ll never wield, but with benignant sway
Rule o’er a people myriad-tongued, who gladly homage pay.
And to his Consort, now a Queen—the Queen we all adore—
We raise our greetings loyally and all our love outpour;