John Mayne

* * *

Bonaparte, o’er the sea, 
Threatens you and threatens me; 
Single-handed though we be, 
	We’ll gar him rue the laive o’t. 
Let him come, or let him send, 
Back again he’ll never bend; 
Our island is his journey’s end, 
	He’ll only get a grave o’t.

And for the fiend-like sons o’ strife, 
Wha’d stain the soil that gave us life, 
By a’ that’s dear to man and wife 
	An inch they’ll never have o’t. 
We’ll fight like men wha daur be free, 
We’ll mak them fa’, or gar them flee; 
And, when we’ve drown’d them in the sea, 
	We’ll triumph o’er each wave o’t.

O! for his country, when she calls, 
How blest is he wha nobly falls! 
Loud Fame records him in her halls, 
	And Glory tells the brave o’t! 
Sound, sound your pipes, your trumpets blaw, 
To arms, to arms! huzza, huzza! 
Our king, our liberty and law, 
	Our country, or a grave o’t!