But one small tribute let me pay, which justice does demand, To Admiral Pasley, who this day was ta’en from his command. One wicked shot, which they had got, his leg did sever soon, Which robb’d the van of this brave man long e’er the fight was done. Yet ’midst such play he’d smile and say, ‘Fight on, my lads, and try To make these rebel Frenchmen know that British courage still will flow, _To make them strike or die_.’ My shipmates, now let’s celebrate a day of great renown, Which will this victory relate to ages yet unknown. Come, let us raise our voice to praise the gallant name of Howe, Who by this check the stubborn neck of France has made to bow. May peace again, and all her train, with blessings from on high, Shine on our Isle! then all shall know that Britons will such courage shew, _To make them strike or die_. God Save the King! _THE BLANCHE FRIGATE._ You Frenchmen, don’t boast of your fighting, nor talk of great deeds, ’tis in vain; Do you think that Old England you’ll frighten as easy as Holland and Spain? We listen and laugh while you threaten, your boasting the valour of France, Since your frigate _Le Pique_ has been beaten by the jolly brave tars of the _Blanche_. She sail’d from the bay of Point Petre, four hundred and fifty on board, And we were all ready to meet her: to conquer or die was the word! The cans of good liquor were flowing, we gave them three cheers to advance, And courage in each heart was glowing, for cowards ne’er sail’d in the _Blanche_. The night then upon us declining, the moon did afford us a light, Each star with fresh lustre was shining, to keep the French frigate in sight. The breeze gently filled all our sails, our ship through the water did launch, And the grog flew in bumpers and pails amongst the brave tars in the _Blanche_. At midnight we came alongside, each ship being prepared for the fight; ‘Huzza!’ then bold Faulkner he cried, ‘we’ll conquer or perish this night’; So they gave us a broadside to try our courage and found us all staunch, Not a man there but rather would die, than cowardly yield up the _Blanche_. The fight made the sea seem on fire; each bullet destructively flew. Britannia her sons did inspire with courage that damp’d the French crew, Saying, ‘Cowards, you surely must die, for over you Death turns his lance,’ While our balls repeat as they fly, ‘Fight on, my brave tars of the _Blanche_.’