What tho' the Swiss ha'e hunker'd down,
An' kiss'd their looves an' a' that,
Let Dutch an' Don faint at his frown,

A Scot's a Scot for a' that.

For a' that, an a' that,

His Hamburg Squibs an' a' that,
John Bull has breath to bla' a blast
Will answer him an a' that.

Yon little man, First Consul ca'd,
Frets, fumes, an' raves, an' a' that;

Tho' Frenchmen tremble at his word,
He's Corsican for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

Reviews, Levees, an' a' that,
The free-born brave o' Britain's isle,
Can look an' laugh at a' that.

Tho' he can mak' Etrurian kings,
Popes, Cardinals, an a' that,

To rule the sea 's aboon his might,
Gude faith he maunna fa' that.

For a' that an a' that,

Flat bottom'd boats an a' that,
Our wooden wa's an' British Tars,
Are nobler far than a' that.

Yet let us pray to see the day,

When Commerce smiles an a' that;

When War shall cease, an' gentle Peace

Shall beas the gree an a' that.

For a' that, an a' that,

'Tis comin' yet for a' that,
When bluidy blades an' broken heads,
Shall banish'd be an a' that.

The first in the Year is a month rather cold,

When LANGARA was warm'd by our RODNEY so bold;
And the next month to that may be proud that its name
Stands with VINCENT and BLAKE in the Temple of Fame.
In March ABERCROMBY's great deeds we review,
With those of brave HOTHAM, and valiant PELLEW;
And Sir Sin, who from Egypt made BONAPARTE run,
And clear'd a whole Acre of ten plagues in one!

In April all London was pleas'd at the News,
That the foe were well beaten by Admiral HUGHES;
While the very same day RODNEY open'd a school,
To prove ev'ry Frenchman an April fool.

BOSCAWEN, CORNWALLIS, and BRIDPORT, in June,'
Taught our cap'ring neighbours to frisk to some tune;
And though well they got thrash'd, yet that wasn't the worst,
For by Howe they were lather'd at last on the first.

With fervour to equal July may I sing,

How indebted for drubbing they stood to GEORGE BYNG ;
This, too, was the month the Armada's fond brag,
Shar'd the fate of poor BONY's invincible flag.

Of laurels, in August, the crop is so vast,

And heroes and victories follow so fast;

To match Cressy and Blenheim in vain might we strive,
Were not MITCHELL, and NELSON, and PARKER alive.

It well may behove British hearts to remember,
The battle of Poictiers was fought in September;
And then, if for joy they can keep themselves sober,
Let Agincourt season each heart in October.

October, besides, the great valour proclaims,

Of BEMBOW, HAWKE, KEPPEL, most glorious names ;
You may think I miss WARREN, indeed but I don't';
And if we forget DUNCAN, I'm sure the Dutch won't.
In November Earl WARWICK, a mettlesome fellow,
Beat the foe, just like VERNON, at fam'd Porto Bello;
And YORK's Duke in December, to keep up the sport.
Brought one hundred and thirty French sail into port.

As I've sung a full twelvemonth you'll think it too long,
If your names I should add, or more verse to my song;
Than only to say, that since glory has crown'd
Ev'ry month, may we still beat 'em all the year round.

THE

THE SONS OF OLD ENGLAND.

Tune-" To Anacreon in Heaven."

YE Sons of Old England, who bravely have fought

For those rights, which, unstained, from your Sires had descended, May you long taste the blessings your valour has bought, And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended! Though robb'd of mild peace,

May our nation increase

With the glory of Rome and the wisdom of Greece.

CHORUS.

For no Son of Old England shall e'er be a slave,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls a wave.

Whilst France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
And Society's base threats with wide dissolution;
May Peace, like the dove that return'd from the flood,
Find an ark of abode in our mild Constitution.
For though peace is our aim,

Yet the boon we disclaim,

If bought by our Sov'reignty, Justice, or Fame:
For no Son, &c,

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
Has justly ennobled our nation in story;

But a proud haughty foe would obscure our bright day,
And blot out the sun of Britannia's glory.

Let invaders be told,

Tho' the Tyrant has sold

Our country to murder, and rob of its gold, That no Son, &c.

Should the tempest of warfare continue to blow,

Its blasts can ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder; Cornwallis and Nelson, like our late gallant Howe, With our Tars will repulse all assaults of its thunder. Foes assail us in vain,

Our fleets rule the main,

And our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain. For no Son, &c,

Our plains they are crown'd with imperial oak,

Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd;

And long ere our nation submits to the yoke,

Not a tree shall be left on the land where it flourish'd.
Should invasion impend,

Britain's Sons would descend

From the plains and the mountains, their shores to defend. For no Son, &c.

Let Fame to the world sound Britannia's voice,

No intrigue can her Sons from their liberties sever; A King is their pride, and the laws are their choice, Which will flourish till Liberty slumbers for ever. Then unite heart and hand,

Like Leonidas' band,

And swear to the God of all ocean and land, That no Son of Old England will e'er be a slave, While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls a wave.

ODE

ON THE PROSPECT OF WAR.