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 Not the Reces of Arms can cool their Fire,

Quench't in the Act, they burn in the Deire;

Not Capuan Plenty, not luxuriant Eae,

The Man of Action's firt and wort Dieae,

Can Taint their Temper, quench their Thirt of Fame,

Or Rut the pollih'd plendor of their Name.

Their Arms may tarnih, but the Soul's kept bright,

For, pight of Practice, they by Nature fight;

Born Soldiers, fitted from the Birth for Fame,

Bodies all Iron, and their Souls all Flame.

The War revives, Bellona ounds to Arms,

The Scots by Nature ravih't with her Charms,

From their remotet Mountains hear the ound,

And Troops of Hero's pread Hibernian Ground;

With Native Fire and ene of Glory fill'd,

And wing'd with Joy, they ruh into the Field.

In ev'ry Action that deerv'd a Name,

They har'd the Hazard, others har'd the Fame;

William with Pleaure often led 'em on,

They gave, they guarded, and they lov'd his Crown;

Smiling he view'd the Wonders of their Hands.

Happy the Gen'ral Troops like thee Commands,

The gladded Monarch aid,

when at Namure,

Ramay fell on and mock'd the Gallick Power,

And emulating Nations wondring firt gave o're.