But sans culotte Frenchmen we’ll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
We’re anxious that Peace may continue her reign,
We cherish the virtues which sport in her train;
Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh,
And we shiver at Horror’s funereal cry;
But still, though we prize
That child of the skies,
We’ll never like slaves be accosted.
In a war of defence