Burned are our homes, exile and death, Scattered the loyal men. Yet…

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward,’ the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye.

When Adam and Eve were dispossessed Of the garden hard by Heaven, They planted another one down in the west, ’Twas Devon, glorious Devon!

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!

Good Christian People, I have not come here to preach a sermon; I have come here to die.