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To arms we flew, their line was broke,
And all around was loſt in ſmoke,
While Nelſon gave the potent ſtroke
That cruſh'd their proud armada.
But fate for us had ill in ſtore,
A lofs which we muſt e'er deplore;
A fatal ſhot,
Oh! cruel lot!
Wounded the hero of the Nile,
While envy did malignant ſmile,
On board the Trinidada.
Then to revenge his loſs let's fly,
Like Britons conquer, boys, or die,
For dearly's earn'd the ⟨victory⟩
Which by his death is won, boys;
But, tho' he dies, his name ſhall live;
In future ages ardour give;
Our tars inſpire
With martial ire,
While to each Briton ever dear,
They'll ſigh, and drop a briny tear,
To think his race is run, boys.
F I N I S.
———o———
Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.
