Who still her sacred essence scorn’d;
Each faithful witness first destroy’d,
Then Falsehood’s base-born brood suborn’d.
An ancient kingdom, could he think,
The scourge of his,—might thus be won?
Thy name, crown’d traitor, still shall stink,
While Albin boasts one freeborn son!
Thou, Edward, many a traitor vile,
—Thy kindred true—didst aggrandize:
Nor force, nor flattery,—dastard guile