Page:Four songs (2).pdf/7

7 Let thought take no place in your bosoms,

And sigh for the sorrows of war.

Ah! Lang has the scythe of destruction

Been sweeping the nations ,

But ne’er did it cut with such keenness,

As on the great 18th of June.

Bold Britain and they have lang been

Contending for who'll have the away,

But brawling may turn into mourning,

To think on this terrible day!

Ten thousands of good hearted mortals

Here fell midst the awful platoons,

And sung a farewel to their sorrows

Upon the great 18th of June,

Fire, France, with her ord'nary fury,

Did think the Allies to o’erwhelm;

But, ah! she forgot, in the hurry.

That Britain did stand at the helm,

And what a sad heart 'cirs had money,

To tak now instead of a Crown,

A canter frae Brussels to Paris.

Lamenting the 18th of June.

While Britain, as bold as a lion,

Made all shake around with her roar.

She conquer’d the Legions against her,

Till there was to conquer no more,

But great was the tumult on both sides,

And great was the number cut down ;

And many a heart will remember

With sorrow the 18th of June.

Let England rejoice in her heroes

And Ireland in great Wellington;

But Scotia may mourn without ceasing,

Her best and her bravest black gone;