HAve we a further Trouble yet in store?
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And can our Destiny afflict us more?
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To lose our Prince we thought too great a blow,
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And must we lose his glorious Image too?
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Ireland for more than thrice seven years has been
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Envyd without, for being so blest within;
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While Plague, Fire, Famine, War abroad has reignd,
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This only was the safe and happy Land.
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Which Happiness, Great Sir, to You we owe,
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Next to the God above, and God below.
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The Irish Harp, which long abusd had lain,
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Your skilful Hand first brought in Tune again.
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And when some others by our King were sent
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To play upon the Noble Instrument,
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Such was their Ignorance, or their Errours such,
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They provd but Foils to your Melodious Touch.
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Into Your Hands then, which before it gracd,
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The Noble Instrument again was placd;
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On which, a long, soft Tune again You playd,
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When jarring Discord did all else invade.
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And we rejoycd to think you woud play on------
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But Heavns and our Kings Will must still be done:
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We submit humbly to that Soveraign Powr,
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Which can the Bliss it takes away, restore;
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More we cant have, nor do we wish for more.
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Adieu then, much-lovd Prince------
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(With mournful Hearts we make this Prayr for you)
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Greatest and Best of Un-Crownd Heads, adieu.
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And since You must go hence------
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Ore you shall fly, a steddy Gale of Prayrs,
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And under roll an humble Sea of Tears;
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All the amends which for Your mighty Toil
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Can be returnd by a poor Widdow-Isle:
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Such now, alas! she is, and nere till now,
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That ORMONDs Noble House dos wholly from her go;
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Not leaving, to support her fainting Mind,
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An ARRAN, or an OSSORY behind.
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May Heavns choice Blessings on them all attend;
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And bring them to a Calm and Glorious End.
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Glorious and Calm may all their Passage be;
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As was the Hour in which they put to Sea.
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And landed; wheresoere her ORMOND goes,
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May England doat on him, as Ireland does.
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To whose Great King, due Homage having done,
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His Councils Honourd, and securd his Throne;
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Let Him Return His VICEROY here agen:
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May Heavns and Englands Monarch say, Amen.
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