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THE INVITATION. 261
And after you're dead, your names shall be read, As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled, And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.
'Tis an honor to serve the bravest of nations, And be left to be hang'd in their capitulations.
Then scour up your mortars,
And stand to your quarters, 'Tis nonsense for tories in battle to run, They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em; Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces, For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not, Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.