Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,
With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,
Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,
Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,
To Britain's bosom, did she live—or die—
Unheard—uncared for, her last lingering sigh?
On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,
Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.
See now a jackal move about his gate,
Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State—