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Seven brides serve me seven sins

Seven seas writhe for me

From Orient gates to Rlyeh

Abydos to Thessaly

And Sirens sing from stern

But now I cease to play

For I yearn to return

To woodland ferns

Where Herne and his wild huntress lay

Now the tidal are turning

Spurning the darkness

The great purgations of distinguished tours

Are but stills in time

To the thrill that Im

Once more

Heading to the bedding

Of her English shores

The wind bickered in Satanic mill sails

Eyes flickered in deep thickets of trees

And mists clung tight in panic to vales

When Brigantia spoke her soul to me

From Imbolg to Bealtaine

Lughnasadh to Samhain feasts

I heard her lament as seasons blent

Together a chimerical beast

Now the tidal are turning

Churning in darkness

The celebrations of extinguished wars

Are but stills in time

To the chill that climbs

Once more

Dreading the red weddings

On her English shores

Gone are the rustic summers of my youth

Cruel winters cut their sacred throats

With polished scythes that reap worldwide

Pitch black skies and forest smoke

And the hosts that I saw there

Drones of carrion law

Drove the ghosts of my forbears

To rove and rally once more

One of her sons from the vast far-flung

Come home to rebuild

The rampant line of the Leonine

Risen over pestilent fields

Now the tidal are turning

Burning in darkness

The salvation of her hungry sword

Shalt spill like wine

From the hills to chines

That pour

Spreading her beheadings

On these English shores

For the hosts that I saw there

Drones of carrion law

Drove the ghosts of my forbears

To rove and rally once more

This is a waking for England

From its reticent doze

This is a waking for England

Lest hope and glory are regarded as foes