Come, ye brave, by Fortune wounded
More than by the vaunting Foe,
Chear your hearts, ne'er be confounded;
Trials all must undergo.
Tho' without or Rhyme or Reason
Hurried back thro' Wilds unknown,
Virtue's smiles can make a Prison
Far more charming than a Throne.
Think not, tho' wretched, poor, or naked,
Your breast alone the Load sustains:
Sympathizing Hearts partake it —
Britain's Monarch shares your Pains.
This Night of Pride and Folly over,
A dawn of Hope will soon appear.
In its light you shall discover
Your triumphant day is near.