University of Virginia Library

England! awake! the Pow'rs of France increase;
Too long we've slept in soft, luxurious Ease:
Thou, who rejoycest in the Clank of Arms,
To whom the Cries of charging Hosts are Charms:
Thou, who art foremost in the Chace of Fame,
Whom the Earth dreads, and trembles at thy Name;
Shalt Thou thus stoop to little, modish Sports,
And learn to spend your time, by Forreign Courts?
Shall the rough Briton ogle at a Play,
Or at Quadrille pass the dear Hours away?
Shall He, whom Drums and Warlike Sounds rejoyce,
Sit sweetly-silent to Cuzzoni's Voice,
Sunk in soft Raptures shew the Charmer's Skill,
And Die or Live at pretty Madam's Will?
Shall He with Kickshaws A-la-mode be fed,
Train'd up in Sloth, and to the Toilet bred?
Shall he be taught to act the Coxcomb's Part,
To walk in Minuet, and run by Art?
Shall he be taught to lisp a Forreign Tone,
Talk in bad Language, and forget his Own?

Awake! awake! O England! rise! advance!
Check the proud Foe; 'tis Hell conspires, 'tis France:
Dare to have Sense yourselves, assert your Right,
'Tis theirs to trifle, but 'tis Ours to Fight.
Cressi has felt Our Arm, she knows us well,
Unhappy Agincourt the same can tell:
Since they can't conquer us by Dint of Arms,
They strive to undermine us by their Charms;
Perhaps too soon may teach us how to yield
Without the Terrours of a Fighting Field:
For this, we see the Trumpets laid aside,
And these by forreign Musick are supply'd.
No more the Helmet shrow'ds the manly Face,
But the big, powder'd Wig has fill'd it's Place.
Thin, airy Dress supplies the Coat of Mail,
And dangling Stick-Frogs o'er Broad-Swords prevail:
Arms and the Man are now quite out of use,
The One grows rusty, and the Other loose.
Now French Commodities are all the Fash:
Poor England's Products are but counted Trash;
French Dishes, Dresses, French Employs, French Courts,
French Fops, Diseases, Follies, and French Sports.
In short—we're Frenchmen all, and prize that most,
Which comes the farthest, at the dearest Cost.
O! where is all our antient Virtue gone,
That thus by false Temptations we're undone!
Too late in vain shall we resist their Pow'r,
Too soon they'll trap us in some vacant Hour;
Then may we, thus made Captive and forlorn,
The Fate, we courted, at our Leasure mourn.

Rise, England! rise; and let the Frenchman know,
That the free Briton scorns to stoop so low,
To empty Dancers, and a powder'd Beau.