Who can from Joy refraine, this Gay,
This pleasing, shining, Wond’rous Day?
For tho’ ye Sun has all his Summer’s Glories on,
This Day has brighter splendours far
From a little riseing Starr.

A Prince of Glorious Race descended,
At his happy Birth attended
With Rosy, smileing Hours, to show
He will Golden Dayes bestow.

The Father’s Brave as e’re was Dane,
Whose Thund’ring Sword has thousands slain
And made him o’re half Europe Reign.

The Graces in his Mother Shine
Of all the Beauties, Saints and Queens
And Martyrs of her Line.
She’s great, let Fortune Smile or Frown,
Her Virtues make all Hearts her own:
She reigns without a Crown.

Sound ye Trumpet, and beat ye Warlike Drumms;
The Prince will be wth Laurells Crown’d,
Before his Manhood Comes.
Ah! how pleas’d he is and Gay,
When ye Trumpet strikes His ear
His Hands like shakeing Lillies play,
And catch at ev’ry Spear.

If now he burns wth noble Flame,
When grown, what will he doe?
From Pole to Pole he’l stretch his Fame
And all the World subdue.

The Thames shall be Queen
Of Tyber and Seine,
Of Nilus, of Indus, and Ganges:
And, without forreign aid,

Our Fleets be obey’d
Wherever the Wide Ocean Ranges.