| |
| REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, | |
| Of Stuart, a name once respected; | |
| A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, | |
| But now ’tis despis’d and neglected. | |
| |
| Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye, | 5 |
| Let no one misdeem me disloyal; | |
| A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh, | |
| Still more if that wand’rer were royal. | |
| |
| My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne: | |
| My fathers have fallen to right it; | 10 |
| Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, | |
| That name should he scoffingly slight it. | |
| |
| Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, | |
| The Queen, and the rest of the gentry: | |
| Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; | 15 |
| Their title’s avow’d by my country. | |
| |
| But why of that epocha make such a fuss, | |
| That gave us th’ Electoral stem? | |
| If bringing them over was lucky for us, | |
| I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them. | 20 |
| |
| But, loyalty, truce! we’re on dangerous ground; | |
| Who knows how the fashions may alter? | |
| The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, | |
| To-morrow may bring us a halter! | |
| |
| I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, | 25 |
| A trifle scarce worthy your care; | |
| But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, | |
| Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer. | |
| |
| Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye, | |
| And ushers the long dreary night: | 30 |
| But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, | |
| Your course to the latest is bright. | |
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