ROUSE, Britons! at length, And put forth your strength Perfidious France to resist; Ten Frenchmen will fly, To shun a black eye, If an Englishman doubles his fist. Derry down, down, hey derry down. But if they feel stout, Why let them turn out, With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies, Brave Hardy's sea thunder Shall strike them with wonder, And make the frogs leap in their bellies! For their Dons and their ships We care not three skips Of a flea -- and their threats turn into jest, O! We'll bang their bare ribs For the infamous fibs Cramm'd into their fine manifesto. Our brethren so frantic Across the Atlantic, Who quit their old friends in a huff, In spite of their airs, Are at their last prayers, And of fighting have had quantum suff. Then if powers at a distance Should offer assistance, Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye," Old England 's a match And more for old scratch, A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee! Derry down, down, hey derry down. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK FINGER by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE ON HEARING A LITTLE MUSIC-BOX by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD by CARL SANDBURG AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS; SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE NIGHTINGALE THAT WAS DROWNED by PHILIP AYRES |