Whilst some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.
The French are at our gates, they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch traitor Paine.
In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black stud,
Lord Fauconberg, I ween,—