No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease,
But emulates on shore the heroes of the seas;
A common cause unites them, to meet the daring foe,
All they wish, all they ask, is a fav'ring wind to blow.

Oh! let them come along, and may no tempests low'r,
But fairly may we try our valour and our pow'r,
That Hist'ry may not say, should these robbers be laid low,
To the storm 'tis alone the victory we owe.

Soon shall these infidels the dreadful diff'rence prove,
'Twixt slaves impell'd by fear, and freemen bound by love;
Our foes shall never rise again, when once they are laid low,
On the sea, on the shore, for justice strikes the blow.
SONG.
When storms on the ocean
Create high emotion,
It pleases the wish
Of the monarch of fish,
For he gambols and sports in the motion.

Should a shoal of small fry
Attempt to draw nigh,
With a flap of his tail,
Th' imperial whale
Makes them pay for their rashness, and die.

Oh! thus, on the seas,
Just with the same ease,
Should the enemy come,
In ship, boat, or bomb,
We will knock them about as we please;

Till at last they shall cry,
'We are the small fry,
And Britannia's the whale,
By a flap of whose tail,
If we dare to approach her we die.'