THE TARS

                 OF THE

               BLANCH.

YOU Frenchmen don't boast of your fighting ,
Nor talk what great deeds you have done,
Do you think that Old England you'll frighten,
As easy as Holland or Spain.
We listen and laugh while you threaten,
Your boasting and wily advance,
The boasting La Pique has been taken,
By the jolly brave tars of the Blanch.

We sailed from the Bay of Point Peter,
Four hundred and fifty on board,
We were all ready to meet them,
To conquer or die was the word,
While the can of good liquor was flowing,
We gave them three cheers to advance,
And courage in each heart was glowing,
For cowards ne'er sailed in the Blanch.

The night then advancing upon us,
The moon did afford us a light,
Each star then with lustre was shining,
To keep the French Frigates in sight ;
While the breeze gently filled our sails,
Our ship through the water did launch,
And the grog flew about in full bumpers,
Among the brave tars of the Blanch.

The fight made the sea seem on fire,
Each bullet distractedly flew,
Britannia her sons did inspire,
With courage that damped the French crew ;
Saying cowards you surely must die,
While over them death turn'd his lance
Our balls did repeat as they flew,
Fight on my brave tars of the Blanch.

When Falkner resigned his last breath,
Each gave a deep tear and a sigh,
Such sorrow was found at his death,
With simpering, read, wept, and died ;
Like Wolf, then with victory crown'd,
At his death, he cried ' ne'er mind my chance,
But like gallant heroes fight on,
Or expire by the name of the Blanch.'

Stout Wilkins his place soon supplied,
And like a bold actor engaged,
And his guns with more judgment to guide,
For the loss of his captain enraged ;
And who could his fury allay,
When the La Pique alongside did advance,
For our masts being all shot away,
We grappled her close to the Blanch.

Our foremast and mizen being gone,
The French thought they'd make us their own,
And with Vive la Republique sung,
I thought they would never have done.
We joined their song with dismay,
And music that made them to dance,
And not a false note there was played,
By the harmonious tars of the Blanch.

When they found it in vain for to stand,
They cried out for quarters amain,
Although the advantage they had,
Still Britons are lords of the main :
So push round the grog, let it pass,
Since they've found us true hearted and stanch,
Each lad with his favourite lass,
Drink success to the tars of the Blanch.