Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n;
From his high estate,
And flying with his brood.
Deserted at his utmost need
By those who on corruption feed,
From his own realm in fear he flies,
To England turns his anxious eyes,
Still, in the rain, young Reynolds boldly sate,
Until there lingered scarce a soul;
The wet had cleared the ground below,