Lightly they'll talk of our spirit as gone!
Our guns might to atoms have brayed them,
Yet we've let the rascals in this way go on,
Treating those very Britons who made them.
But half of our shameful job was done,
When the waves roared the hour of retiring,
And we knew we the distance should have to run,
To divert a rabble admiring.
Sharply and quickly we laid him down,
'Mid the jeers of the monks, young and hoary,