By Iain Muir
Sound the Call! Let Trumpet bray!
Harper, sound! Good Piper, play!
Send forth the Word. To the Old Man say:
"The time is Now! This is the Day!"

"The foeman round our shore doth wait;
His trait’rous agents ope the gate.
A parluous time is on the State.
Wake the Sleeper! Need is great!"

From his dim unending sleep
Underground in caverns deep
Let our King, our saviour, leap
That Britain sov’reignty may keep

Arther, son of Uther, stand!
Send the message through the land!
Hold aloft your good, sharp brand!
Warn the Foes from Britain banned!

Come, Merlin, weave your magicks well,
Wake our King as tale doth tell,
Then weave a far more baneful spell,
And send the foeman straight to Hell!

Galahad! Gaheris! Bors!
Wake and answer to our cause!
Agravaine! Gawaine! Ulbawes!
Stand to! The Foe are at the doors!

Rise and answer, good Du Lac,
Fight with ev’ry slash and hack
To turn Britain’s invaders back
So fight on beach, in field, on track!

Come Gareth, Parsival, and Kay!
Britain’s armies stand at bay.
Come Pellinore! Against the day
In Britain foreign power holds sway.

We’ve need of heroes in these days
When foreign rule creeps in and stays.
When Brussels makes us change our ways,
While Britain’s soul slowly decays.

We shall not see such deeds again,
Shan’t see such gallant gentlemen.
If not in nineteen forty, when
Shall Britain the High King see again?
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