Each thorn from his bosom shall draw:
Ah! who can be sad, when they hear him exclaim,—
“Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’, Kiver awa’.”
Heav’n prosper thee, Gotham! thou famous old town,
Of the Tyne the chief glory and pride:
May thy heroes acquire immortal renown,
In the dread field of Mars, when they’re try’d:
Amongst them, O ne’er may flincher be found;
And that mirth they from duty may draw,
Long, long, through their ranks may these accents resound,—