Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down,
Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain,
While their selfish bosoms throb only for gain.
But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar,
What falchion gleams like a meteor star?
’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await
The time when thy summons is heard at their gate.
Already its prelude resounds in the air,
And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair.
Oh! Albion, long in captivity led,