in this Morn,
Under this clime,
She found her dark hails,

She tasted its drops and thee can hanging it
on thine blue nose Thro’ this explode.
now, after the mad mass
the Isle became bold , because it scattered the inner gold,
And whose wailing is this?
Who knows!
But,
Before you go,
Cheer their death up
and embrace your pavilions
And fly carefully
Towards the panic .