Disdain not, mighty Chief, to whom descend
The Virtues and the Honours of your Friend,
To view the Trophy which the Muses raise
To Churchill's Name, in these ambitious Lays,
Nor let the Herald merit all the Praise.

To you, my Lord, our other Hope, belong
These mournful Numbers and this funeral Song;
Which to the Patron of Europa's Laws
A youthful Bard with grateful Sorrow draws;
For whilst the Story of his Life I trace,
And follow him in War, from Place to Place;
Mix'd with his Deeds I read thy awful Name,
Which run together, parallel in Fame;
In every Camp you bear no vulgar part,
And share the weighty Counsels of his Heart;
In every Battle with your Chief combine,
In every Siege you stretch the ambient Line,
And storm the Breach or spring the secret Mine.

Beneath his Eye, with inborn Glory fir'd,
The love of Arms and Conquest you acquir'd;
Warm in your Breast his gen'rous Ardours roll'd,
Alike by Toils and Dangers uncontroll'd:
From him you copied all the Leader's Art,
The same cool Head and bold, intrepid Heart;
Reserv'd in Council, eager in the Field,
And fix'd, by his Example, not to yield.

While these illustrious Annals I review,
And find so great a Part perform'd by You;
For Churchill's Loss I feel a lighter Woe,
And half my starting Tears forbid to flow;

For still, my Lord, to loyal British Hearts
No common Joy and Transport it imparts;
Still to the Foe no common Pain it gives,
That a new Marlbro' in Cadogan lives.