This civil contest, this ignoble jar;
Think how unjustly you've begun the fray,
With cruel measures rous'd America.
To arms: each swain must leave the peaceful field,
And 'gainst his brethren lift the sword and shield.
Their spacious commerce, now in ruin lies,
And thro' their land the hostile standard flies.
Britain, what laurel canst thou hope to gain?
Can any action give a hero fame?
In brother's blood our soldiers hands imbru'd,
And barb'rous hostiles by our chiefs pursu'd.
Afflicting Britain, thus to spoil thy name,
Defeat's a scandal, conquest but a shame.
Our senators all lost in dire excess,
Lovers of pleasure, luxury, and dress.
Almighty ruler, stretch thy potent hand,
And o'er Britannia wave the olive wand;
Preserve our nation from th'impending fate,
Drive clouds of Scotchmen from the British state;
Fair peace descend, with all thy prosp'rous train,
And spread thy blessings o'er our spacious plain.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/4/11 - 13:57
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