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8 The nights are long and dark enough, Your passage to secure; But lest the weather should be rough, Your fleets of boats insure.

Britannia, though a small land, Possesses wondrous wealth; Old Italy and Holand, And all you gain'd by stealth; And all you got by downright force, With it cannot compare, There you may fill each empty purse, And feast on princely fare.

But mark, in this same spot of earth, A native plant is found, Which from the day that gave it birth, Has bloom'd all seasons round; 'Tis deadly poison to the touch, Of tyrants and of slaves, And sure as fate ye French and Dutch, Will send you to your graves

Then come you Gasconaders, With all your bosts of war, And prove yourselves invaders, Of Britain—if you dare: All eager arm'd and steady, On shore and on the seas, Her gallant sons are ready, To meet you when you please.

FINIS