Is it yon ensign, waving high in air,
With British crimson dy'd, that claims your care?
Alas! unconscious winds—yon waving red,
With British honours so profanely spread,
Is not the hallow'd standard, whose high fame
Leads Albion's sons to deeds of proud acclaim;
Is not the flag, with whose protecting sway
Commerce exulting sweeps the wat'ry way.
Beneath that specious banner, the dark pow'r
Of savage rigour ripens ev'ry hour: