Seven Brides Serve Me Seven Sin,
Seven Seas Writhen For Me,
From Orient Gates To Rlyeh,
Abydos To Thessaly,
And Siren 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 Shores,
The Wind Bickered In Satanic Mill Sails,
Eyes Flickered 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 Extinguised Wars,
Are But Stills In Time,
To The Chill That Climbs,
Once More,
Dreading The Red Weddings,
On Her English Shores,
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 In Darkness,
The Salvation Of Her Hungry Sword,
Shalt Spill Like Wine,
From The Hills To Chines,
That Pour,
Spreading Her Beheadings,
On These English Shores
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 Its Reticent Doze,
This Is A Waking For England,
Lest Hope And Glory Are Regarded As Foes.
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