Written on the Thirty-First Day of December

rapt in a Mantle of dark Clouds, the Year, The Winds now sleeping, in dim Rest expires, And Julius' Walls send forth their flashing Fires, And shake with Thunder our rejoicing Sphere: The Days of Agincourt again appear, Poictiers, and Cressy, where our warlike Sires Saint George first planted on the Gallic Spires, And Paris shook, that London was so near! Bourdeaux, and Bayonne, view our tented Host, Whose conqu'ring Horses drink their Streamlets dry; The Netherlands to France again are lost; The Rhenish Princes from her Banners fly: Then line the Ramparts, while this glorious Toast, Th' IMMORTAL REGENT! thunders to the Sky.