They summoned us when legions marched, gave sword and helm to stand the line,
When Rome came west to claim our isles, we bore the shield and held the pine.
The mead was poured, the fyrd was called, the oaths were sworn by kin and land,
For every cliff and woodland path, the freemen fought with axe in hand.
But now the cry is not to arms, it’s silence drawn across the sand.
When dragon-prows from northern seas set fire to church and plough and field,
Our lords cried out, to arms again! and none who held a blade would yield.
When Norman steel struck Harold down, the blood was thick on Sussex clay,
Yet still the call went far and wide, to make the tyrant's banner pay.
But now, the foe comes not with swords, and we are told to look away.
The Spaniard’s fleet met English wrath on ocean’s storm and cannon’s call,
And twice in blood the world was saved by men who would not let it fall.
They armed us then for freedom’s cause, to guard the hearth, the tongue, the soil,
And from the farms and factory towns rose sons who’d never learned to spoil.
But now those sons must bow their heads and speak no pride of native toil.
The voices raised in warning tones are chained with terms of darkest stain;
They call us traitors to the peace, though none would strike for selfish gain.
For daring question silent loss, we’re labelled enemies of state,
While strangers seize the turning wheel, and culture’s gate swings on to fate.
The proud must whisper now in fear, while liars make their power great.
No fyrd is called, no trumpet blown, no banners flown from hill or spire;
They school the young to loathe their name, and douse the old ancestral fire.
No sword, no shield, no stand allowed, just laws to clip the rebel tongue,
No voice for Kent, no song for Wessex, no bell of English church be rung.
The final law? That pride be shame. The last commandment: Hold thy tongue.
(By John Shenton)