Seven brides serve me seven sins
  Seven seas writhe for me
  From Orient gates to R'lyeh
  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 I'm
  Once more
  Heading to the bedding
  Of Her English shore
  
  The wind bickered in Satanic mill sails
  Eyes flicked 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 shore
  
  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 the darkness
  The salivation of Her hungry sword
  Shalt spill like wine
  From the hills to chines
  That pour
  Spreading Her beheadings
  On these English shore
  
  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 it's reticent doze
  This is waking for England
  Lest hope and glory are regarded as foes