Air - 'Vicar of Bray.'
A wind-bound exile far from home,
While standing near th' unfathomed main,
My eyes the far horizon roam,
To see the land I long to gain.
Though dim with mists and faintly blue,
The hills of bliss e'en now I view;
Oh! when will Heaven's soft breezes come
And waft the weary exile home?

Let those who know no lovelier shore
Their shells and sea-weed idly heap,
Then mourn to see their paltry store
Dispersed and sinking in the deep.
My storehouse lies beyond the wave,
My treasure fears no wat'ry grave.
And oh! I wish far winds would come
And waft me o'er to that blest home.

Already some I held most dear,
Have safe arrived on yonder strand;
Their backs afar like specks appear,
The exiles now have gained the land.
Their parting signals wave no more,
No signs of woe float from that shore!
And soon the skiff for me will come,
And Heaven's own breath will waft me home.