Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer (3).pdf/11

 For out of thee shall people rise,
 * With divers happiness;

And yet a pen can scarcely write,
 * Thy hurt, skaith, and distress.

And yet beware thou not distrust,
 * Altho' o'erwhelm'd with grief,

Thy stroke is not perpetual,
 * For thou shah find relief.

I do suppose, altho' too late,
 * Old prophecies shall hold,

Hope thou in God's goodness evermore,
 * And mercies manifold.

For thou that now a patient is,
 * And seemeth to be bound;

At liberty shall free be set,
 * And with empire be crown'd.

From high above shall grace come down,
 * And thy state, Scotland, be,

In latter ends, more prosperous
 * Than former age did see.

Old prophecies foretell 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 bower.