Once o'er those downs wild beacons blazed,
Weird messengers of fate and fight,
She was not wild, dismayed, or dazed,
But calmly looked towards the light --
Towards the light that springs from night,
As sure as courage springs from faith.
So now, when like some hideous wraith
War mocks, with bodings from the dead,
Our moonlit harvests, swathe on swathe,
May she, dear England, lift her head
Towards the light, towards the light --
Praying that God defend the right.