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TIT FOR TAT: A SEA KICK FOR A LAND CUFF.
Being the sailors' song upon our having a Hawke's eye on the French fleet, the fourteenth of October last .
Ring, ring out our bells ! and to Calais from Dover Let our cannons loud roar carry France the news over, That the balance of land and sea war we've brought home, And our prizes, at Portsmouth, pay their Bergen-opzoom. So Huzzah ! to King George, boys; long, long may he reign, By the right of old England, long lord of the main ! So Huzzah ! to King George, etc.
Now hark ! and you'll hear (and with truth 'twill be told) How the seas have been swept by his true hearts of gold : In the month of October, to West Indies bound, A fleet so becrowded with numbers we found, Tho' our ken could not count 'em, our first chasing gun Observ'd 'em less forward to fight than to run. Tho' our ken could not count 'em, etc.
All, all hands aloft, and away 'fore the wind, , Full sail sped their merchants, from convoys behind ; Yet, to do their tall ships the true honour we owe 'em, Tho' to beat was above 'em, to fly was below 'em. But their cargoes, in danger, had no time to talk; So like pigeons they flew from our bold British Hawk. But their cargoes, in danger, etc.
Now broadsides to broadsides, smash ! thro' and thro' boring, Made the sea seem a forest of lions all roaring ! But the Severn's bruised ribs felt our shot fly so sore, That her loud fifty mouths never spoke a word more. So silenc'd we left her, without more concern, To be catch'd, as we saw, by our frigates astern. So silenc'd we left her, etc.