VENGE O Lord！ Thy slaughter'd saints whose bones

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold；

Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old

When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones

Forget not： in Thy book record their groans

Who were Thy sheep and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills and they

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow

O'er all the Italian fields where still doth sway

The triple Tyrant： that from these may grow

A hundredfold who having learnt Thy way

Early may fly the Babylonian woe.