As by the streames of Babilon
Farre from our natiue soyle we sat,
Sweet Sion thee we thought vpon,
And eu'ry thought a teare begat.

Aloft the trees, that spring vp there,
Our silent Harps wee pensiue hung :
Said they that captiu'd vs, Let's heare
Some song, which you in Sion sung.

Is then the song of our God fit
To be prophaned in forraine land ?
O Salem, thee when I forget,
Forget his skill may my right hand !

Fast to the roofe cleaue may my tongue,
If mindelesse I of thee be found :
Or if, when all my ioyes are sung,
Ierusalem be not the ground.

Remember, Lord, how Edoms race
Cryed in Ierusalems sad day,
Hurle downe her wals, her towres deface,
And, stone and by stone, all leuell lay.

Curst Babels seede !  for Salems sake
Iust ruine yet for thee remaines !
Blest shall they be thy babes that take
And 'gainst the stones dash out their braines.