When the British warrior queen
Bleeding from the Roman rods
Sought with an indignant mien
Counsel of her country's gods

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief
Every burning word he spoke
Full of hate and full of grief

'Princess, if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terror of our tongues

Rome shall perish - write that word
In the blood that she has spilt
Perish hopeless and abhorred
Deep in ruin as in guilt

How sweet it is for fatherland to die!
True Virtue opens heaven to worth
She makes the way, she does not find
The vulgar crowd, the humid earth

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori