o' britain, why do you slumber?  behold the call that summons men, to lands bound firm by faith and kin, where death itself must bend its knee before the righteous hand of thee. o soldiers, heed the ancient creed, in blood and fire, by fate decreed, let not thy sword be stilled by fear, for glory walks beside thee here. the past, a dark and endless sprawl, yet from its depths the strong must call, and heroes, young and bold, arise, to lift their gaze unto the skies. hail now britannia, cruel and wide, where empire's wrath and fate collide, the sword raised high in heavens' span, that none might stand against its hand. the emperor, vast in form and might, a titan 'neath the sun's own light, with truth like steel and justice bare, his shadow stretched through poisoned air. no force shall tear him from his throne, no storm shall crush what he has sown, his blood, as ancient as the stone, shall flow unbroken, yet unknown. so rise, and seek the glorys flame, for death and life are much the same. to raise the sword and never yield, is to claim the world as battles field. all hail the truth thats carved in blood, in oceans roar and mountains thud. for power bends but never breaks, and with the emperors hand, it takes.
France