When Alfred held the english throne, And England's self was little known, Yet, when invaded by the Dane, He early faced them on the main.
That scythian race who ruled the sea — He soon pronounced their destiny; To leave his isle, to sheath the sword; Disgraced, defeated, and abhorr'd.
So now, these worse than danes appear To do their deeds of havoc here — For all they did in seasons past, The day of grief must come at last.
For plains, yet white with human bones, For murders past, no prayer atones; For ruin spread in former years, Not even the mitred clergy's tears.
Let us but act the part we ought, And tyrants will be dearly taught That they, who aid a country's claim, Fight not for ribands, or a name.
Still hostile to the rights of man, A deadly war, the english plan; The gothic system will prevail, To ruin where they can assail;
A war, where seas of blood may flow To ornament their scenes of wo. O Washington! thy honored dust The foe will not profane, we trust;
Or if they do, will vengeance sleep, Or fail to drive them to the deep? For shores well known, they shape their course, An english fleet, with all its force;
A british fleet may soon appear To ravage all we counted dear. Advancing swift, by beat of drum, Half England's dregs, or Scotland's scum;
With these unite the indian tribes, Now hostile made by force of bribes — And they will dare the eagle's frown, Though half his force can put them down.
The envenom'd foe, inured to war, May scatter vengeance wide and far, Unless, to assert our country's right, All hearts resolve, all hands unite.
Let party feuds be hush'd, forgot, Past discord from the memory blot, And Britain, from our coasts repell'd, Shall rue the day she took the field.
The dart, to assail the english power, In time must reach that hostile shore, And red with vengeance, on its way, Their naval power in ruins lay.
The western world a blow must deal To let them know, and make them feel That much too long a plundering hag Has mortified all Europe's flag.
By wars and death while despots thrive What pity one remains alive! By them the seeds of war are sown, By them, our lives are not our own.
Their deadly hate to freedom's growth, To reason's light — that spurns them both, That deadly hate predicts our doom, And digs the pit for freedom's tomb.
Be not deceived — the league of kings, Confederate crowns, this warfare brings; These send their hosts to forge our chains, Harass our shores, renew their reigns.
At Pilnitz they who join'd to swear And wage with France wide wasting war Till freedom should her claims recall, And Louis reign, or myriads fall;
At Pilnitz, with decided aim, They form'd their schemes to blast our fame: And, faithful now to what they swore, Would, kings dismiss'd and thrones, restore.
Ye hearts of steel, observe these hosts! The odious train my soul disgusts; They rise upon the vultures wings To prop the tottering cause of kings.
Observe them well — through every grade They exercise the robber's trade; They sail upon a plundering scheme, They march, to give you sword and flame.
And burn you must, if, slow to act, You wait to see your cities sack'd, Yourselves enslav'd, and all things lose That labor earns or wealth bestows;
If slow to send your heated balls, Indignant, through their wooden walls. O may you see their squadrons yield Their legions sink on every field;
And new Burgoynes, to slaughter bred, Burgoynes, once more, in fetters led. And may you see all foreign power Forever banish'd from your shore,
And see disheartened tyrants mourn, And Britain to her hell return.
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