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THE BRITISH LYON ROUSED (1755), by                    
First Line: Hail, great apollo! Guide my feeble pen
Last Line: While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.
Subject(s): French And Indian Wars


HAIL, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen,
To rouse the august lion from his den,
Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.

Rouse, British Lion, from thy soft repose,
And take revenge upon the worst of foes,
Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose.

They always did thy quiet breast annoy,
Raising rebellion with the Rival boy,
Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy.

Treaties and oaths they always did break thro',
They never did nor wou'd keep faith with you
By popes and priests indulged so to do.

All neighboring powers and neutral standers by
Look on our cause with an impartial eye,
And see their falseness and their perfidy.

Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease,
But by indulgence mightily increase,
Killing and scalping us in times of peace.

They buy our scalps exciting savage clans,
In children's blood for to imbue their hands,
Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.

Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blows
Upon the heads of your perfidious foes,
Who always truth and justice did oppose.

Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships,
And speak your terror o'er the western deeps,
And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets.

Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood,
And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood,
A faithful drubbing to their future good.

Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs;
And when the news unto Versailles it comes,
Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs.

Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers,
And conquer all these cursed foes of ours,
And sweep the ocean with your iron showers.

While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall,
Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball;
To see such hail-stones down among them fall.

Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead,
And others in a vast amazement fled,
While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head.

My roving muse the surface reach again,
Search every part of the Atlantic plain,
And see if any Gallics yet remain;

And if they do, let British cannon roar;
And let thy thunders reach the western shore.
While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more.





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