Poem by David Crawford

Ode the Recovery of His Majesty from His Late Illness, in the Year 1789

				I.

	In songs of praise, 
	Ye Britons raise 
Your voices, bless heav’n’s sovereign Lord, 
	Who from disease, 
	To health and ease, 
Our much lov’d Monarch has restor’d.

				II.

	The arm of Fate
	Hung o’er the state, 
Britannia mourn’d her Monarch’s cafe;
	Hope almost fail’d,
	Despair prevailed, 
And grief appear’d in ev’ry face.

				III.

	Unfeigned joy,
	Without alloy, 
Now fills our hearts, the nation rings;
	Ranks high and low,
	All strive to show, 
How much they love the best of Kings.

				IV.

	May GEORGE alone
	Long fill the throne, 
His, loyal subjects will obey;
	May Trade increase,
	And Discord cease, 
And foreign nations own Britannia’s sway.

				V.

	GEORGE deigns to smile, 
	Our happy isle
Beholds fair Virtue rear her head, 
	Good men and just, 
	Fill polls of trust,
And Vice dishonour’d seeks the shade.

				VI.

	May Britain’s crown, 
	Which is his own,  
Long flourish on his royal head, 
	May he at last, 
	When death is past,
Receive a crown which will not fade.

				VII.

	God save the King,        
	Let Britain sing,
Let Ireland catch the lofty found, 
	And people all, 
	Both great and small,
In British Isles with joy abound.

1. A Letter sent to a Gentleman, who had advised the Author to be a Volunteer, but was rejected on account of Age
2. An Answer to Will. M’Vitie
3. On receiving a Shock from an Electric Machine, when Author was troubled with Pains
4. Verses on the Edinburgh Volunteers Receiving their Colours, September 26, 1794

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