Cradle Of Filth - English Fire

Seven brides serve me seven sins Seven seas writhe for me From Orient gates to R'lyeh Abydos to Thessaly And Sirens sing from stern But now I cease to play For I yearn to return To woodland ferns Where Herne and his wild huntress lay Now the tidal are turning Spurning the darkness The great purgations of distinguished tours Are but stills in time To the thrill that I'm Once more Heading to the bedding Of her English shores The wind bickered in Satanic mill sails Eyes flickered in deep thickets of trees And mists clung tight in panic to vales When Brigantia spoke her soul to me From Imbolg to Bealtaine Lughnasadh to Samhain feasts I heard her lament as season's blent Together a chimerical beast Now the tidal are turning Churning in darkness The celebrations of extinguished wars Are but stills in time To the chill that climbs Once more Dreading the red weddings On her English shores Gone are the rustic summers of my youth Cruel winter cut their sacred throats With polished scythes that reap worldwide Pitch black skies and forest smoke And the hosts that I saw there Drones of carrion law Drove the ghosts of my forbears To rove and rally once more One of her sons from the vast far-flung Come home to rebuild The rampant line of the Leonine Risen over pestilent fields Now the tidal are turning Burning in darkness The salvation of her hungry sword Shalt spill like wine From the hills to chines That pour Spreading her beheadings On these English shores For the hosts that I saw there Drones of carrion law Drove the ghosts of my forbears To rove and rally once more This is a waking for England From it's reticent doze This is a waking for England Lest hope and glory are regarded as foes