To bless the place, where first, on freedom’s soul.
He bade the Scottish thunder roll.
’Twas N—t—n rais’d that deep-ton’d voice,
And as discordant murm’rings round him rose,
The Speaker’s self bends from his chair on high,
And shakes his awful wig, and joins the courtly cry.
Air.
Ye high o’er-hanging walls
That sure no monarch loves,
Where fain would freedom linger with delight,