a ballad.
77
E'en now he drains the cup of hate,
And feels what wretches feel!
And feels what wretches feel!
If ever tyrant's irksome reign
Oh England! blot thy throne,
Bethink thee then, of Stuart's pain,
And Heav'n's justice own!
Oh England! blot thy throne,
Bethink thee then, of Stuart's pain,
And Heav'n's justice own!
If ever—but indignant lay,
Shalt thou prescribe to Heaven!
The traitor swarm is swept away,
And England is forgiven!
Shalt thou prescribe to Heaven!
The traitor swarm is swept away,
And England is forgiven!
Time, thro' thy mist, with daring eye
Even now the Bard can trace,
The hour when many a realm shall lie
Uprooted from its base.
Even now the Bard can trace,
The hour when many a realm shall lie
Uprooted from its base.
