When our flying streamers they beheld, And stout men-of-war, which was likewise rarely man’d, They were with exceeding sorrow fill’d. A thousand times in vain they wish themselves on land. Aloud they cry’d, ‘Morblew.’ Alas! that wou’d not do. The British lyon bold, Which scorns to be controul’d, Caused their stubborn hearts to ake; Took they were by the care Of the right renowned Sir John Leake. This vast fleet of barks was then convey’d Under the protection of three French men-of-war. Finding they by us captives were made, Alas! they rung their hands and cry’d aloud, ‘Begar, De Britains bold are come, With cannon, trumpet, drum, To seize upon our corn, And make us all forlorn.’ This was the mourn which they did make; For they found they were bound To submit to valliant Sir John Leake. Cloathes for many thousands were on board Those barks which was taken, and naval stores likewise: Barley, oats, and wheat, which did afford Much comfort to the army of the Grand Allies; For well we may conclude, They having store of food, And other comforts still, They’ll fight with right good-will And of the French strange havock make; Then let’s pray, night and day, For the right renowned Sir John Leake. To fair Barcelona they have brought Those rich laden cargoes, worth many thousand pounds. O the French commander little thought They should meet with crabid Fortune’s fatal frown: But so it came to pass; Each looking like an ass At their unhappy doom, How they did fret and foam, While we joy and triumph make, Drinking still, with good-will, To the right renowned Sir John Leake. _THE SEA-FIGHT; OR, THE FRENCH PRIZE TAKEN: A BALLAD._ ‘To your quarters, my lads; we are now within shot; Let your guns be all loose in their tackle, Your ports be knock’d open, and every thing got In a right ready order for battle. See, see that the decks and the gun-room be clear, And take care that your matches be lighted; Tho’ she boldly bears down she shall find when she’s near That we bold Brittains scorn to be frighted. ‘Up noise of trumpets; be brisk; hail our prize. Hark: she answers again with her trumpets. She’s resolv’d to engage; to the windward she plys. See, her colours are out and her drum beats. Hold fast, jolly gunner; let Monsieur begin; We are able, my boys, to receive him. If he galls us at first, when we get him close in, We will make him submit e’er we leave him.