On the Queen's Return From the Low Countries

Hallow the threshold, crown the posts anew!

The day shall have its due.

Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,

On which let honour breathe;

Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!

'Tis she that must preserve those glories green.

When greater tempests than on sea before

Received her on the shore;

When she was shot at "for the King's own good"

By legions hired to blood;

How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!

And show'd, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.