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 Go Numberles and pread the Finny Sail,

And find Britannia Nature's Darling Ile;

There pread your Scaly Squadrons, and ubmit,

Your Makers Law Commands, To Every Net.

Be You Their Wealth and plenteouly upply

What Coldet Soil and Steril Climes deny.

Be You Their Envy'd Bleing, and attend

The willing Prey, to the undutrious Hand,

In proper Squadrons all your Troops divide,

And viit Every Creek, with Every Tide.

Preent your elves to every Hungry Door,

Employ The Diligent, and feed The Poor.

If they reject the Bounties of the Sea

Bid'em Complain no more of Poverty.

Upbraid their loth, and then return to me,

Viit no other Port.

The punctual well intructed Fih obey,

And Scaly Squadrons pread the Northern Sea,

Directly point their Coure, and find the Shore,

As if they'd all been here before.

Their equal Ditance keep, divide and join,

As if they're taught by Book, or teer'd by Line: