and rous'd the freeborn briton's soul of fire,

no more thy ennd own!

dare injured nations form the great design,

to make detested tyrants bleed?

thy ennd execrates the glorious deed!

beneath her hostile banners waving,

every pang of honour braving,

ennd in thunder calls, “the tyrant's cause is mine!”

that hour urst how did the fiends rejoice

and hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,

that hour which saw the generous english name

linkt with such damned deeds of evesting shame!

thee, caledonia! thy wild heaths among,

fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,

to thee i turn with swimming eyes;

where is that soul of freedom fled?

immingled with the mighty dead,

beneath that hallow'd turf where wace lies

hear it not, wace! in thy bed of death.

ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,

disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

nor give the coward secret breath!

is this the ancient caledonian form,

firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?

show me that eye which shot immortal hate,

sting the despot's proudest bearing;

show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering fate,

crush'd usurpation's boldest daring!—

dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,

no more that nce lightens afar;

that palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.