An ancient prophet long ago foretold,
(Though fools their saws for vanities doe hold)
A king of Scotland, ages coming on,
Where it was found, be crowned upon that stone.
Two famous kingdoms separate thus long,
Within one island, and that speak one tongue,
Since Brute first reigned, (if men of Brute allow)
Never before united until now,
What power, nor war could do, nor time expected,
Thy blessed birth hath happily effected.
Oh now revive that noble Britain’s name,
From which at first our ancient honours came,
Which with both nations fitly doth agree
That Scotch and English without difference be,
And in that place where feuds were wont to spring
Let us light jigs, and joyful paeans sing.
Whilst such as rightly prophesied thy reign,
Deride those idiots held their words for vain.
Had not my soul been proof ’gainst envy’s spite
I had not breathed thy memory to write:
Nor had my zealous, and religious lays
Told thy rare virtues, and thy glorious days.
Renowned prince, when all these tumults cease,
Even in the calm, and music of thy peace,
If in thy grace thou deign to favour us,
And to the muses be propitious,
Caesar himself, Rome’s glorious wits among,
Was not so highly, nor divinely sung.
