The MILITIA-MAN

By our conduct abroad and our councils at home We've so cow'd the poor French, and so humbl'd proud Rome, That they darn't look up: why let's keep 'em still down, For the honour of Britain, the right of the crown. They are rascally foes; Then, O follow them close; And second the blow, That lately you know, Was dealt them by Prussia, that son of renown: Their dastardly bands, Shrink under our hands; To no gallant deeds can their armies be stir'd: Triumphant then sing, And make the air ring, With bless, bless the King! Our guardian!—our father!—our friend George the third!

We all are free born, and as such let's behave, With hearts, hands, and purses, 'gainst fool, tool, and knave. O Pope! O Pretender! O Monarch of France! Where, where are you now? you are sick of the dance. In our sovereign's right, We prepare for the fight, E'er our liberties fall, Be militia-men all: Turn our plough-shares to swords, and to meet them advance. Sound trumpet! beat drum! Come Frenchmen! come! come! Yet hear from a foe the advice of a word; Starv'd scoundrels beware; For your souls have a care; He dies who first dare Set a foot on the bounds of King George the third.