Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the Sun
Across the land and in your fields the tree-lined waters run
But in your heart what light is there, what grows and comes to flower?
Does mind grow cold, do weakened hands let slip their ancient power?

Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the Sun

Albion, I see you now, once noble, high and fair
Your greatness gone, your wealth dispersed, as empty as the air
What wasting sickness struck so at the flesh beneath the skin
Took might and honour at a stroke, and witherеd from within?

Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the Sun

Albion, a sapling tall, but onе that dies, not grows!
The greater tree you left to fall, but now your own sap slows!
The winter comes to all that lives, the Ice that slays the root
If Spring will ever shine again, will you still bear a shoot?

Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the Sun

Albion, if worth remain, if aught is left to show
The smallest leaf, the slightest bud from ancient bark to grow
The gain is worth the sacrifice, the battle worth the slain
But will your spirit yet endure the healing stroke of pain?

Albion, how fine your trees stand gilded by the Sun