[A Volunteer Song A Collection of Pieces in Verse Numbered I.-XI. By Francis Wrangham] |
 | I. | No I. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | [A Volunteer Song |  |
No I.
A VOLUNTEER SONG.
OF love or of wine it were treason to sing,
When, like locusts, the robbers of France are on wing
Our green island to ravage, in myriads they throng;
Then swell the full chorus, brave friends, of my song—
O'er the wave let them come,
They but rush on their doom;
To our shores should they fly, they shall never fly home.
When, like locusts, the robbers of France are on wing
Our green island to ravage, in myriads they throng;
Then swell the full chorus, brave friends, of my song—
O'er the wave let them come,
They but rush on their doom;
To our shores should they fly, they shall never fly home.
Hark! your sires from their tombs in deep accents implore,
That you'd crush the fierce foe, as they crush'd him before.
That you'd gild with fresh glories fair history's page,
And grace with new Crefsys and Blenheims your age.
O'er the wave, &c.
That you'd crush the fierce foe, as they crush'd him before.
That you'd gild with fresh glories fair history's page,
And grace with new Crefsys and Blenheims your age.
O'er the wave, &c.
Their Edwards and Henrys were lions in fight,
But we have our Nelson and Acre's dread knight:
Its broom let the house of Plantagenet boast,
Our Navy's the broom to sweep clean yon foul coast.
O'er the wave, &c.
But we have our Nelson and Acre's dread knight:
Its broom let the house of Plantagenet boast,
Our Navy's the broom to sweep clean yon foul coast.
O'er the wave, &c.
Then away to the field! 'tis your country invites;
Remember your homes, and your fireside delights!
Yet, if France but one spot in that country should crave,
Indulge her; and, oh! let that spot be her grave.
O'er the wave let them come,
They but rush on their doom;
To our shores should they fly, they shall never fly home.
Remember your homes, and your fireside delights!
Yet, if France but one spot in that country should crave,
Indulge her; and, oh! let that spot be her grave.
O'er the wave let them come,
They but rush on their doom;
To our shores should they fly, they shall never fly home.
| [A Volunteer Song | |