Page:Five old songs.pdf/5

 All their vile arts are vain,

is King!

We will his life defend,

And make his power extend

Wide as his fame.

May choicest blessings shed

On his exalted head,

And make his foes to dread

our King.

He peace and plenty brings,

While Rome’s deluded kings

Waste and destroy:

Then let his people sing,

Long live great our King,

From whom such blessings spring,

Freedom and joy.





night on my late ramble,

two miles below Pimry,

I met a farmer’s daughter

all on the mountains high.

I said my pretty fair maid.