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"Soon may the ru’ers of tins mighty land,
"To ease your sorro'ws stretch the helping hand,
“ Else soon, too soon, your hapless fate shall be,
“ Like me to suffer, to depart like me.
“ On your dear native land, from whence I part,
"Rest the best blessing of a broken heart.
"If in some future hour, the foe should land
"His hostile legions on Britannia’s strand,
"May she not then th’ alarum sound in vain,
"Nor miss her banished thousands on the plain.
“ Feed on, my sheep, for though depriv’d of me,
“ My cruel foes shall your protectors be,
"For their own sakes, shall your straggling flocks,
“ And save your lambkins from the rav’ning fox.
“ Feed on, my goats, another now shall drain
“ Your dreams that heal disease and soften pain;
“ No dreams alas! can ever, ever flow,
“ To heal your master’s heart, or soothe his woe.
“ Feed on, my flocks, ye harmless people, feed,
“ The worst that ye can suffer is to bleed.
“ O! that the murderer’s heel were all my fear!
“ How fondly would I slay to perish here “
"But, hark! My fons loud call me from the vale,
“ And, lo! the vessel spreads the swelling fail.
“ Farewel! farewel!” A while his hands he wrung,
And o’er his crook in speechless sorrow hung,
Then calling many a ling’ring look behind,
Down the steep mountain’s brow began to wind.
