When Zeppelins o’er Albion's rooftops soar,
And sirens wail 'fore midnight's bloody blast,
The hearth is shaken to its earthen core,
Yet still our tea is brewed, our flags held fast.

The larder's lean, the queues a daily test,
Where mothers trade in rations, hope, and bread.
Yet stoic stands the East and stoic West,
Though hunger makes the children pale with dread.

The butcher's hooks hang bare as chapel pews,
The gaslight dims, and coal lies rare as gold.
But still we stitch our socks and mend our shoes,
And whisper tales of courage, fierce and bold.

For though the war be long and peace seem far,
We raise our brows to meet each falling star.

The walls may shake, the glass to dust may turn,
But not our will, which ever stands upright.
Though bombs descend and London’s rooftops burn,
We keep our customs, candles, and our light.

In gardens now we till with aching hand,
Where once were roses, now are roots instead.
The farmer’s field becomes the common land,
And even poets plant where once they read.

Let Kaiser cast his iron to the skies,
Let thunder roar and cloud our noonday sun,
Our hearts, unbowed, beneath the smoke shall rise—
Each stoop, each square, a battle to be won.

So tell the world, in voice both calm and grave:
The isle endures, though winds of terror rave.