The Anvil -

England’s on the anvil — hear the hammers ring

Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne

Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King

England’s being hammered into line

England’s on the anvil — heavy are the blows

Ordered by the tyrant bastard son

Destiny has cursed us with the maker of our woes

England’s being hammered into one

Sorrow for the conquered, wretched is their doom

Marshalled from the mountains to the shore

Withered in the shadow of the ruthless victor horde

Toiling in the silent throes of war

England’s in the furnace, tempered by the flames

Cast into a spiral of decline

Grievous is the pounding in this iron-fisted forge

England’s being fashioned by design

'With bloody sword came he

Cold heart and bloody hand

Now rule the English land'

— Heimskringla

England’s on the anvil — hear those hammers ring

Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne

Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King

England’s being hammered, hammered into line

Glowing on the anvil, faithful sons awake

Banish this usurper from the throne

Furl his sacred standard tight fixed with dragon seal

And send it with our blessings back to Rome