Now drink a health to George our King, Not forgetting Charlotte, his royal Queen, And all brave seamen that sail on the main True blue for ever will never stain. _So, boys, etc._ _ADMIRAL KEPPEL TRIUMPHANT._ Ye brave British tars, come, attend to my muse, Be jovial and hearty, in wine let’s carouse; For Keppel from the accusation is clear, That was brought against him by Sir Hugh Palliser. One morning, last July, at break of the day, The French was descry’d in battle array: Brave Keppel, impatient to fight proud Monsieur, Directed his course and unto them drew near. The French fleet to windward first gave a broadside. Augustus, undaunted, their great guns defy’d: His fleet, being mann’d with compleat British tars, Appal’d the Monsieur with the thunder of Mars. Aghast the pale French in dismay bore away; Our ships, being crippl’d, oblig’d us to stay, Main-sails, gallant royals, stay-sails to repair, That we might again re-attack the Monsieur. This done, our commander the signal did make For the ships to the lee to come to his wake. Regardless of order, Sir Hugh Palliser Refus’d to obey, and kept back in the rear. This gave the French time to retreat into Brest: But observe the sequel, which is a meer jest. As guilt is always [the] companion of fear, So mind the dark plan of Sir Hugh Palliser. Assisted by Beelzebub, prince of old Styx, His infernal sire, the weapon he strikes; Himself to exculpate, the shaft he lets fly, Intending a sacrifice Keppel should die. The plan was laid down, then the charge it was made, Augustus accused of being afraid To fight the Monsieurs, and of running away, And leaving the French fleet triumphant at sea. But justice and Montague there did preside; They found out the falsehood, his errors descry’d; The jury withdrew, for they all saw the cheat, Acquitted Augustus, because he was great. This true son of Neptune, couragious and bold, Will fight for his king, and by him be controul’d; To minions in power he’ll not be a slave, The French he’ll chastize with a heart free and brave. So now, brother sailors, let us reunite To serve under Keppel, the French for to fight; His name, like the gold from the furnace, shall shine In Old England’s annals to time’s latest line. Then fill up your glasses, and let them not stand; A health to the hero that doth us command: May each British heart and voice say, without fear, ‘A fig for the French and Sir Hugh Palliser!’ _KEPPEL FOR EVER!_ Smile, smile, Britannia, smile, on Admiral Keppel smile, Thy darling son; With laurels crown his head; go, Fame, his glory spread; His name monsieurs do dread, from him they run.