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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.
