They swear they’ll invade us, these terrible foes, They’ll frighten our women, and children, and beaux; But should their flat-bottoms in darkness get o’er, Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore. _Hearts of oak, etc._ We’ll still make them run and we’ll still make them sweat, In spite of the Devil and Brussels Gazette. Then cheer up, my lads, with one voice let us sing, Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and King. _Hearts of oak, etc._ _THUROT’S DREAM._ The twenty-first of February, as I’ve heard the people say, Three French ships of war came and anchored in our bay: They hoisted English colours and landed at Kilroot, And marched their men for Carrick without further dispute. Colonel Jennings being there, at that pretty town, His heart it was a-breaking while the enemy came down; He could not defend it for the want of powder and ball, And aloud to his enemies for ‘quarter’ did call. As Thurot in his cabin lay he dreamed a dream: That his grandsire’s voice came to him and called him by his name, Saying, ‘Thurot, your’e to blame for lying so long here, For the English will be in this night, the wind it bloweth fair.’ Then Thurot started up, and said unto his men: ‘Weigh your anchors, my brave lads, and let us begone; We’ll go off this very night, make all the haste you can, And we’ll steer south and south-east, straight for the Isle of Man.’ Upon the next day the wind it blew north-west, And Elliot’s gallant seamen they sorely were oppressed; They could not get in that night, the wind it blew so high; And as for Monsieur Thurot, he was forced for to lie by. Early the next morning, as daylight did appear, Brave Elliot he espied them, which gave to him great cheer. It gave to him great cheer, and he to his men did say: ‘Boys, yonder’s Monsieur Thurot, we’ll shew him warm play.’ The first ship that came up was the _Brilliant_ without doubt, She gave to them a broadside, and then she wheeled about; The other two then followed her, and fired another round. ‘Oh, oh! my lads,’ says Thurot; ‘this is not Carrick town.’ Then out cried Monsieur Thurot, with his visage pale and wan: ‘Strike, strike your colours, brave boys, or they’ll sink us--every man; Their weighty shot comes in so hot on both the weather and the lee; Strike your colours, my brave boys, or they’ll sink us in the sea.’ Before they got their colours struck great slaughter there was made, And many a gallant Frenchman on Thurot’s decks lay dead; They came tumbling down the shrouds, upon his deck they lay, While our brave Irish heroes cut their booms and yards away. * * * * * And as for Monsieur Thurot, as I’ve heard people say, He was taken up by Elliot’s men and buried in Ramsey Bay.