The New LILLY BULLERO

The French are a coming, as news-writers say, Lilly bullero, bullen a la. Will over our herring-pond force their mad way, Lilly bullero, bullen a la.

Rodney grasp our naval thunders, Dart them at the saucy foe; Their flat-bottom boats batter; Their ships of war shatter; Sink them as the centre low, Excited by Perkin some came here to spy, Lilly Bullero, bullen a la. Behold our rich products with ravenous eye, Lilly bullero, bullen a la.

These were not made for invaders; Slaves who bow to Rome the knee: But for Britons hearty Now all of a party, Hating soup meagre, and tyranny. Could the Monsieurs prevail, what dire havock were here. Lilly bullero, bullen a la. A strange metamorphosis soon would appear. Lilly bullero, bullen a la.

Half starv'd groups in wooden shoes skeating, Gibbets erected our faith to destroy; Pale nuns thro' grates peeping, Sighing and weeping, Mad after a man they must never enjoy. But take it for granted, some Frenchmen might land, Lilly bullero, bullen a la. What would their fate be, when on our strand, Lilly bullero bullen a la.

Hunted down by our new militia Soon they'd sad pecavi cry; To some wooden Saint mutter, Curses morblieu! and sputter, As on their backs they sprawling lie. When Pharoah pursued Israel in the red sea, Lilly bullero bullen a la, O'erwhelm'd was his host, and drowned was he, Lilly bullero bullen a la.

Monsieurs! the like doom may await you, Should you our British Lion provoke, Your bouncing armada, May prove Gasconada, And your grand project vanish in smoke