Classic Poem

While fir'd St. George inflames his namesake's nation,
Loyal St. Drury arms, in association.
Quake, ye cow'd French , with your white coats , campaigning,
True blue's the true heart's taste , and fears no staining .
Come, if they dare — Ha! brother soldiers , let 'em,
You reds , we blues — faith! we'll find means, to sweat 'em.
While these brave lads march north — we, warlike lasses ,
Stay, cock'd , and prim'd , at home — to guard our passes .
Death, to their smart Graffins! — Morbleu , we'll jerk 'em;
I, and my Amazons , alone, can work 'em.
Heels over head, smish-smash , the brown rascallions ,
And cool the courage of sev'n Pope's batallions!
Well, but 'till danger quits its humble distance ,
I'll ground my firelock — and suspend resistance.
Ladies — a word — be arm'd against occasion,
Charge your bright eyes — and shoot at French invasion.
Queens of these manly souls, so fam'd for battle ,
Laugh at cockaded, henpeck'd, tame, French cattle .
Well may YOU , conquering beauties! hope to dash 'em,
When their own buff-skin wives claim right to thrash 'em.
'Tis the French Mode , to cow're , when wedlock chatters ,
One scold — can shake their S ALIC L AW — to tatters .
Ne'er flinch — but box their ears ; they're men of breeding ,
And, when advanc'd on — fam'd, for swift receding .

Od's me! I'll wear no needless breeches — hang em!
Coarse, bob-tail'd, canvas petticoats can bang em!
Why should maids fight, be-mann'd, be-bluff'd, be-raked ,
The weakest she can do their business naked .

Oh! what a day was Agincourt , for Britain!
Stand to the cause , that this brave play was writ on.
Let the false friends , who hide themselves among ye,
Feel, by loud C LAPS , your country's wrongs have stung ye.
Harry , 'gainst six to one — could hold France to it;
And, pray, Sirs, why not WE ? — By G EORGE , we'll do it.
Odds , to the B RAVE , are lights, that best display 'em,
The more French Jacks come here, the more we'll PAY 'em.
Paltry presumers! — can't they — pert , and handy ,
Crop vines , press grapes , and dance , to their own brandy ,
But, o'er all Europe , they must needs shift stations ,
And shake their wooden shoes , o'er free-born nations .

As for their friends , and good allies — the Highlands ,
Short wint'ry storms rise quick , in all bleak islands ,
Oft have they blown — from Caitness point , to Dover ,
But, still, the louder blast — the sooner over .

Listing, to fight, far north , on cool Reflection ,
May hurt a female volunteer's complexion .
No matter — Better look as brown, as breezes ,
Tann'd , to the foes — like your Mesdames Francoises ,
Than blush, for shame, thro' faint, fine cheeks, in Lunnon:
So, Sirs, farewel — I'll march, and take my gun on,