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o’er their corquering Urn he sighs Pouch'd by their fame's proud fire he cries, 'Thus o’er our foes we’ll ever rise, And George and Britain save.”

Oft Fancy viaws them on the deap, And turning as their squadrons roll, Where great Eliz'a ashes sleep, With triumph fills each Briton’s soul, As Drake and Raleigh each the glance: 'Advance : he cries, rash fools advance! The grave of Span shall ope for France, “And George aid Briton save.'

What prompts these restless foes of life To dare our dreaded arms again ? What, but the hope that party strife Has broke Britannia' s shield in twain ? But know they not, when France is near, The war of tongues' is silent here, That all my grasp Britannia’s spear', And George and Britain save.

Ne’er in the pinch of Britain's Fate, Shall Statesmen's rival Feuds he known, Or Faction strive, with thwarting hate, To break the British Bulwark down;