Simon of the mountain strong,
Flower of knightly chivalry,
Thou who death and deadly wrong
Barest, making England free.
Not the holy ones of yore,
They on earth who travailed sore,
Came to such despite and scorn;
Feet and hands dissevered,
Pierced corse and wounded head
Flesh and harness script and
torn.
So with God our champion be
As our whole defence in thee
Dying, leaves the world forlorn.