And raise their beaut'ous eyes to Heav'n in vain.
Oh! more than savage, who pursue their rage
On bloom of beauty and the hoar of age!
And what exploits exalt this hero's praise?
Where spring the laurels which your poets raise?
Spring they from conquest o'er the village tame,
The sire enfeebled and the aged dame.
View well this sketch and say of which the face [fol. 411.]
Presents the royal mark of Scotland's race.
He who would save thee from destruction's blast,