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Ye natives of Britain, how happy your fate now,
Unknown to you the ravages of Spain;
How many this poor Maniac's tale could relate now,
Whoſe dear boſom friend's have been rank'd 'mongſt the ſlain:
But happy ſecure, while thy ſon's are repelling
The foe from afar off thy much-eſteem'd dwelling;
To thee, war is juſt like the ſtorm's diſtant yelling
Far from the Iſland that ſits in the ſea.
FINIS,
