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 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 season’s 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 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 it’s reticent doze   This is a waking for England   Lest hope and glory are regarded as foes