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1.
Sons, whose sires with William bled,
Offspring of the mighty dead,
When the Popish tyrants fled,
And this fair land left free.
Yield not now to Popish guile,
trust them least when most they smile,
Sun the crafty fowler's toil,
And keep your liberty.
2. Loud and
high their clamours rise
Of pretended miseries;
The Papish creed is only lies,
Which none but fools believe.
All the generous lion can,
That belongs of right to man
Britain puts within their span
And they ingrate receive.
3. Now they
whine as "bondsmen" poor;
Now they boast their millions o'er
And forth the Popish rent they pour
For pike and murder given.
Firm ye sons of Britain, firm
Shrink not from the gatherin' storm,
Let it come in any form
Our battle- word is --Heaven.
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