Classic Poem

Ye Yankees who, mole-like, still throw up the earth,
And like them, to your follies, are blind from your birth;
Attempt not to hold British troops at defiance,
True Britons, with whom you pretend an alliance.

Mistake not; such blood ne'er run in your veins,
Tis no more than the dregs, the lees, or the drains;
Ye affect to talk big of your hourly attacks;
Come on! And I'll warrant, we'll soon see your backs.

Such threats of bravadoes serve only to warm
The true British hearts, you ne'er can alarm;
The Lion, once rous'd, will strike such a terror,
Shall show you, poor fools, your presumption and error.

And the time will soon come when your whole rebel race
Will be drove from the lands, nor dare show your face;
Here's a health to great George, may he fully determine,
To root from the earth all such insolent vermin.