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From high above shall grace come down,
And thy state, Scotland, be,
In latter ends, more prosperous,
No former age did see.
Old prophecies foretel to thee
A warlike heir—he's born—
Who shall recover new your right,
Advance this kingdom's horn.
Then shall fair Scotland be advanc'd
Above her enemies power,
Her cruel foes shall be dispersed,
And scatter'd from her bow'r.
Fair Scotia's en'mies may invade,
But not escape a plague;
With sword, & thirst, & tears, & pest,
With fears, and such like ague.
And after enemies are down,
And master'd in a war,
Then Scotland, in peace and quietness,
Will pass joyful days for ever.
