Oh! Where’s the ancient Briton’s genius fled?
Are justice, honour, virture bravery dead?
Shall tyrants revel upon British Store,
Whilst rightful princes beg from door to door?
Shall the sole prince left of the Royal blood
Be forded from court to court to sue for food,
Whilst the usurper, impiosly great
Plumes with the pompous ornaments of state,
and lavishes away the heir’s estate?

Briton’s for shame! behold the wondrous youth,
With how much hare he forms himself to truth!
How just, how brave, how generous, how wise.
How good he is without the least disguise!
Nor all the ills that cover can obscure
The rising glory of the royal power;
With radiant force it breaks throu’ clounds of night,
And blaszes more illustriously bright.
Such is your prince; how can you then be slaves
To madmen, fools, whores, foreigners and knaves?

Rise Britain rise! your king demands your aid,
God and St. George, can Britain be afraid?
In such a cause break throu’ the the array
Of the usurping guard and force your way;
Some lucky hand, more favoured than the rest,
May charge him home, and reach the usurper’s breast.
The attempt is worthy of the noblest hand,
The addempt may every British heart command.
Improve the lucky hour, assert your laws
Nor fear to die in such a glorious cause.

William Meston A.M.

Scottish Poet – 1680 – 1745