THE EXILED PATRIOT. Tune—"The wandering Sailor."

The patriot exil'd far from home, In foreign climes compell'd to roame; From his detested, cruel foes, He wanders far, to find repose: In hopes when tyrants are no more, Freedom will bless his native shore.

It was not fear drove him away, He never can his trust betray; He dar'd not give a king that blood, Devoted to his country's good; But firmly waits the happy hour, Freedom shall bless his native shore.

His generous soul with rapture views, The page that brings the happy news; How freedom's sons their rights maintain, And stubborn despots sue in vain; Convinc'd, when tyrants are no more, Freedom shall bless his native shore.

Whilst partial vict'ries of a king, Makes slaves and fools elated sing; He mourns the blood a tyrant draws, In such a dire infernal cause: But soon shall tyrants reign be o'er, And freedom bless his native shore.

No idle buzz of Duncan's fame, Or Dutch defeat makes him complain; Ten thousand captur'd ships can't save, The system from its op'ning grave: Then tyranny shall be no more, And freedom bless his native shore.

He smiling looks towards the land Where vict'ry crowns the Gallic band, And anxious waits the great event, When they shall make the grand descent, Then to sea he hies once more, To join them on his native shore.