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260 SONGS AND BALLADS
Oh, now, my brave boys, we have taken a prize, A large forty-four with a twenty likewise, With twenty fine merchantmen laden with store, So we'll alter our course to the American shore.
The muse and the hero together are fir'd, The same noble views have their bosoms inspir'd; As freedom they love, and for glory contend, The muse o'er the hero still mburns as a friend; His name from the jaws of oblivion to save, The muse shall immortalize Farmer the brave.
His ship was the Quebec, fatal, glorious name, The source to Britannia of sorrow and fame. We've twice to our cost that name ill-omen'd found, But now we've no balsam to heal this fresh wound, For then tho' Wolfe's loss to our joy gave a check, Whilst we morn'd for the chief we rejoic'd for Quebec.
At daybreak, ere Phoebus had shed his blest light, Three sail he espy'd, and prepar'd for to fight; October the 6th, anno seventy-nine, With a forty-gun ship he in battle did join ; At nine in the morning began the fierce fray, Which without intermission held most of the day.
Five hours and upwards the action did last;
The shrouds were all torn, and they lost every mast;
Tho' thicker than hail the dread bullets did fly
Yet still to his men gallant Farmer did cry,
' Fight away, my brave boys; I will spend my last breath
Ere I'll yield to the foe : give me conquest or death.'
At length the proud foe was constrain'd to retire; They steer'd to some distance and slackened their fire. The victory, Hibernia, had then been thy son's, But the sails of the Quebec were fir'd by her guns. Then all was distraction, confusion, despair: The vessel took fire and blew up in the air.