All across our glorious isle,
one nation feeling pain,
three are Celts and stood beguiled,
the English left in chains.
where's the glory upon my land?
while other's a freedoms song,
where the Celts reveal a tempered hand,
then muzzle the English tongue.
With our money they change the topic,
their people have an institution'd voice,
with our money they line their very pocket,
in our oppression they rejoice.
whilst we welcome all who come,
what money is left they've spent it,
with this formula from a Baron,
who goes by the name of Barnett.
While these nations plenty prosper,
St George falters and dives,
in England our money goes to whom I wonder?
our silence loud and poverty thrives,
now our union splits apart,
more from our English rage,
a new beginning and a fresher start,
foretold a prophesied sage.
By St George set our England free,
save us from pillage and plunder,
relieve our people in our time of need,
redemption from the Socialist blunder,
the contract that they carved in stone,
Britannia is broken at it's borders,
revolution's shot and overthrown,
chaos gone with renewal of order.
Maybe our people should stand and march,
and rattle the sharpened Sabre,
from those our freedom that they clutch,
Show them our kingdom has gotten braver,
remind to those with given power,
it it OUR will that they serve,
drawing near to the darkest hour,
by blood or words it's our right that we reserve.