Classic Poem

Rouse, Britons! at length,
And put forth your strength
Perfidious France to resist;
Ten Frenchmen will fly,
To shun a black eye,
If an Englishman doubles his fist.
 Derry down, down, hey derry down.

But if they feel stout,
Why let them turn out,
With their maws stulf'd with frogs, soups, and jellies,
Brave Hardy's sea thunder
Shall strike them with wonder,
And make the frogs leap in their bellies!

For their Dons and their ships
We care not three skips
Of a flea—and their threats turn into jest, O!
We'll bang their bare ribs
For the infamous fibs
Cramm'd into their fine manifesto.

Our brethren so frantic
Across the Atlantic,
Who quit their old friends in a huff,
In spite of their airs,
Are at their last prayers,
And of fighting have had quantum suff.

Then if powers at a distance
Should offer assistance,
Say boldly, “we want none, we thank ye,”
Old England 's a match
And more for old scratch,
A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee!
  Derry down, down, hey derry down.