Page:Four excellent new songs (6).pdf/4

 It throttles me to death, Sir

Here like a mankin I may staud, with fingers below my breeches, An dare not even move my hand, to scratch my head when it itches: And then soap and flour too, Is plaister'd on my head, Sir, But for my king and country I'll fight util I'm dead, Sir.

If Serjeant Kite informs me right, I cuts a pratty figare, And why may'nt I in battle try, sure I can pull a trigger; It is my will the French to kill, I'll do't with all my heart, Sir, Perhaps a recruit my chence to Shout, great General Bonaparte, Sir.

If I fhould kill this great Frenchman, my country be befriended, ‘Twould be a thunderbolt to France, and make the war be ended; No doubt but I should Captain be, Lord! that's a pratty thing. Sir, Id tear my throat from morn till night. Shouting God save our King, Sir.

Zounds! now my blood begins to rise, it shows that I'm a Briton; And, if the French should dare to land, huzza my boys we'll split them; Each man must to his motto stand, And that, you know's a lion; If British men go heart and hand, Why, dam'em, we defy 'em.