O thou that art sprung from the flow'r of the land,
Whose virtues endear and whose talents command;
When our foemen are banished, how then wilt thou feel.
That the king of the right shall espouse Grana Weal,
O'er the high hills of Erin what bonfires shall blaze,
What libations be pour'd forth!—what festival days!—
While minstrels and monks with one heart-pulse of zeal,
Sing and pray for the king and his own Grana Weal!
The monarch of millions is riding the sea.
His revenge cannot sleep, and his guards will not flee;3
No cloud shall the pride of our nobles conceal,
When the foes are dispersed that benight Grana Weal.
The mighty in thousands are pouring from Spain,
The Scots—the true Scots4 shall come back again;
To far distant exile no more shall they steal.
But waft the right king to his fond Grana Weal.
Raise your hearts and exult, my beloved! at my words.
Your eyes to your king, and your hands to your swords!—
The Highlands shall send forth the bonnetted Gael,
To grace the glad nuptials of Grana Weal.
And Louis, and Charles, and the heaven-guided Pope,
And the king of the Spaniards shall strengthen our hope;
One religion—one kindred—one soul shall they feel.
For our heart enthroned Exile and Grana Weal.
With weeping and wailing, and sorrow and shame—
And anguish of heart that no pity dare claim;
The craven English churls shall all powerless kneel
To the home-restor'd Stuart and Grana Weal!
Our halls will rejoice with friendship and cheer,
And our hearts be as free from reproach—as from fear;
The hungry adventurer shall pine for the meal,
He long lapped from the life stream of Grana Weal.5
Ah! know'st thou the maiden all beauteous and fair,
Whom her merciless foes have left plunder'd and bare?—
The force of my emblem too well canst thou feel.
For that suffering lorn one is our Grana Weal!
But the nobles shall bring back the true king again.
And justice long slighted will come in his train;
The bullets shall fly—and the cannons shall peal—
And our Charles victorious espouse Grana Weal!