Or buried in the city’s ruin, him and his whole fraternity; This made him to subjection yield, and so they were disarmed; All stores and treasures of the place are bought by Briton’s glory, Seven ships; their arms and everything, and that’s a noble story. O, then with honour we lin’d their gates, and bravery to our wishing, And turn’d Don Spaniard from their posts, which they held by commission; May our noble King prosper long, and all his brave commanders, Who bravely led on Britain’s sons, to knock down popish standards. _LORD ANSON AND HAWKE._ Ye brave _British sailors_, true sons of the main, Who scorn to submit to the insults of _Spain_, Leave to landsmen their politick schemes and their talk, And enter on board the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_. These two noble heroes, whose names our ships bear, Made the _Spaniards_ to tremble, the _Frenchmen_ to fear; Secure of success, then, your fortune ne’er balk, But enter on board the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_. Let the wise politicians of _France_ and of _Spain_, Threat to take from _Great Britain_ her rule o’er the main; Their plate ships shall pay for their arrogant talk, If they come but in sight of the _Anson_ and _Hawke_. The wages, the ingots, the wealth of Peru, The Spaniards are getting and hoarding for you; You shall ride in your coaches, whilst cowards shall walk, Who durst not engage in the _Anson_ and _Hawke_. Then aboard, my brave lads, and with hearts stout and true, The road unto riches and glory pursue; That your wives may dress fine, and your children may talk Of your noble exploits in the _Anson_ and _Hawke_. Here’s a health to King George, and his consort so true, May their laurels sit pleasing and well on their brow; To Hutchinson and Dickson, who for courage never baulk, Then fill up your glasses, boys, to the _Lord Anson_ and _Hawke_. _Huzza, brave boys, the Lord Anson and Hawke._ _A NEW SONG ON THE BLANDFORD PRIVATEER._ Ye seamen who’ve a mind to go in pursuit of new adventures, Repair on board the _Blandford_, with Captain Stonehouse enter, Who cruizing goes to meet his foes, such pastime sure must please us, We’ll prizes make of all we take; this will to fortune raise us. Here is our chief encouragement, our ship belongs to Bristol, Poor Londoners when coming home, they surely will be press’d all: We’ve no such fear when home we steer with prizes under convoy, We’ll frolick round all Bristol town, sweet liberty we enjoy. Why should we here our time delay, in London void of pleasure, Let’s haste away to Biscay Bay, and ransack there for treasure. Here we must creep and play bo-peep, to shun the damn’d press masters, We live in strife, even die in life, confin’d by catch-pole bastards.