Say, lovely peace, that grac'd our Isle

Say, lovely peace, that grac'd our Isle, Why you withdraw th'indulgent smile? Is it, you fly the sons of fame, That they the pride of France may tame? For Mars is rouz'd by war's alarms, And calls the Britons forth to arms.

Our chief's, renown'd upon the main, Once more shine forth in arms again, Whose steady courage dares oppose And stem the pow'r of Gallic foes, For Mars, &c,

What state but does its fate deplore, Where e'er the British thunders roar? All, all must in subjection bow; And to Britannia's sons 'tis due. For Mars, &c.

As Rome of old her terrors hurl'd, And prov'd the mistress of the world, The globe itself must subject be To Albion's sons, who rule the sea; For Mars, &c.

Arise, arise, to war's great call; Prepare to meet th' audacious Gaul; And, in return for all your toils, Return with victory and spoils: For Mars is rouz'd by war's alarms, And calls the Britons forth to arms.