Nor life nor death had any peace for thee,
Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey
To wind and water, till we bade thee stay
And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea.
But now it seems that on thine effigy
Thy very host an impious hand would lay:
Go then and wander, praising on thy way
The proud Republic's hospitality!

Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong,
The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir
Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear
The Lords of Gold above the Lords of Song
Were it not strange, then, should we honour more
The sweet-mouthed singer of a foreign shore?