Nor, tho' the Muse forlorn and helpless stray
O'er thy bare coast, nor glean one fragrant bay,
Bleak Caledonia, shalt thou pass unsung,
For Freedom on thy hills her arm new-strung:
When thy firm sons, who lov'd the public weal,
Or inly burn'd to see tyrannic Zeal
Against their altars lift an impious hand,
And threat th' accustom'd worship of the land,
From their huge cliffs descending like a flood,
Stood forth, prepar'd to seal their faith with blood;
At their approach while perjur'd Holland fled,
False to his Master's cause, his Master's bed;
And Hierarchy, that fiend, whom Scripture paints
Drunk with the blood of Martyrs and of Sai n ts,
Consign'd by Fate in penal chains to dwell,
Slunk unregarded to her native hell.