And the fear of defeat on his visage was stamped.
Cries Bourne, “My dear Gascoyne,
“Don’t take it so to heart.
“Indeed we didn’t mean it,
“Let Hollingshead clean it,
“And then, my dear fellow,
“You’ll soon lose the smart.”
Then cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer,
To add something new to this wonderful year,
We’ll rout the old soldiers in spite of their skill,