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Whether Britannia's "Poor," with Goldsmith's lyre,
Thou sing'st, in strains that breathe celestial fire;
Or, lead'st us through her cities and her vales,
Her hills, her woods, her uplands, and her dales;
Or, while with fancied ills thy bosom glows,
Thou tell'st the tale of hapless Emma's woes;
The pow'rful fictions make us truly feel,
And trickling tears our sympathy reveal.
Thou sing'st, in strains that breathe celestial fire;
Or, lead'st us through her cities and her vales,
Her hills, her woods, her uplands, and her dales;
Or, while with fancied ills thy bosom glows,
Thou tell'st the tale of hapless Emma's woes;
The pow'rful fictions make us truly feel,
And trickling tears our sympathy reveal.
