Resilient Britannia

"Britain goes," the Druid said, 
"Bowing low his oak-crowned head. 
   "Gone the gods of weald and woad 
   Now the Roman takes the road. 
Tramping 'neath his ruthless wheel   
Crushing 'neath his chariot wheel     
   British glory. Hope is dead,   
   Britain dies!" tbe Druid said.   

"Britain's doomed," the coward said. 
"Now the Frenchman fares ahead 
   Must she fall by field and mart 
   Through a conquering Buonaparte? 
Once these foes have come to grips 
Not the might of Nelson's ships, 
   British sword nor British pride; 
   Can prevail," the cowards cried.     

"Britain's lost," they cried of late. 
"Subtler foes are at the gate -- 
   Shrewder foes than 'ere of old - 
   And their weapons are of gold. 
Now at last a chink is found 
In the mail that girts her round. 
   Prestige lost and glory fled, 
   Britain sinks," the timid said.   

Yet again the shout is sent   
To a whole world's wonderment.   
   Sounding o'er the seven seas   
   Crying British victories.   
As of old mid Britain's men   
Dogged, does it yet again -   
   Dogged faith and sturdy will,   
   Britain triumphs, Britain still!