Drop English earth on him beneath
Do our sons; and their sons bequeath
His glories and our pride and grief
At Bladon.

For Lionheart that lies below
That feared not toil nor tears nor foe.
Let the oak stand tho’ tempests blow
At Bladon.

So Churchill sleeps, yet surely wakes
Old Warrior where the morning breaks
On sunlit uplands. But the heart aches
At Bladon.