Ah! Mighty Sir, if you
To such long absence are inclin’d,
Augusta will not stay behind,
But will your guardian light pursue,
And steal from this cold air to follow you,
As birds, when autumn is begun,
Follow the journey of the sun.
But your blest presence now
All we can hope or wish for does allow.

Your influous approach our pensive hope recalls,
While joyful sounds redouble from the walls,
As when Apollo with his sacred lyre
Did in the Theban stones a harmony inspire.

When the Summer in his glory
Was delightful, warm and gay,
All was but a winter’s story
While our Sov’reign was away;
Now decrepit Winter’s coming,
Yet the presence of a King
Makes him young and still a-blooming,
Turns his autumn into spring.
All loyalty and honour be
To this, our mortal deity.

Music, the food of love,
The gentle reliever of care,
Gift of the Pow’r above,
Please with a cheerful air,
Touch with a joyful sound
The sense of a mortal divine;
May his days and his pow’r abound,
By the pow’r of the Une and Trine.

His absence was autumn; his presence is spring,
That ever new life and new pleasure does bring.
Then all that have voices, let ‘em cheerfully sing,
And those that have none may say ‘God save the King!’