What have I given thee,

England, beloved of me?

I have no gold for thy desolate,

I have no spear to guard thy gate,

My hands are weak on the harp of fate

In the hour of threnody.

Yet I have given, I;

And, England, my gifts lie

Far from thee and thy sacred strand.

I have given the hand that held my hand,

The feet that once on my palm could stand,

The hopes I was nourished by.

All that I had, I give,

The life that I bade live,

The heart that my heart made to beat,

The lips erstwhile on my lips so sweet --

These have I given; is it not meet

To have striven that thou mayst strive?

The clay of France doth shrine

This only gift of mine;

England, be it not made in vain,

Be but thy glory great as our pain.

We are glad to have given -- would give again

The light of our days for thine!