Oh! how did he boast Of his pow'r and his host, Alternately swagger and cant; Of freedom so dear, Not a word would he hear, Nor believe he'd be forc'd to recant. That freedom he swore They ne'er should have more, Their money to give and to grant; Whene'er they addressed, What disdain he express'd, Not thinking they'd make him recant. He armies sent o'er To America's shore, New government there to transplant; But every campaign Prov'd his force to be vain, Yet still he refus'd to recant. But with all their bombast, They were so beat at last, As to silence his impious rant; Who for want of success, Could at last do no less Than draw in his horns, and recant. With his brother Burgoyne, He's forc'd now to join, And a treaty of peace for to want; Says he ne'er will fight, But will give up his right To taxation, and freely recant. With the great General Howe, He'd be very glad now, He ne'er had engag'd in the jaunt; And ev'ry proud Scot In the devilish plot, With his Lordship, are forc'd to recant. Old England, alas! They have brought to such pass, Too late are proposals extant; America's lost, Our glory at most Is only that--tyrants recant. But these proposals came too late. America had just concluded with France a treaty by which she agreed, in consideration of armed support to be furnished by that power, never to entertain proposals of peace from Great Britain until her independence should be acknowledged. On March 13 this action on the part of France was communicated to the British government, and war against France was instantly declared. A NEW BALLAD [1778] Rouse, Britons! at length, And put forth your strength Perfidious France to resist; Ten Frenchmen will fly, To shun a black eye, If an Englishman doubles his fist. Derry down, down, hey derry down. But if they feel stout, Why let them turn out, With their maws stuff'd with frogs, soups, and jellies, Brave Hardy's sea thunder Shall strike them with wonder, And make the frogs leap in their bellies! For their Dons and their ships We care not three skips Of a flea--and their threats turn into jest, O! We'll bang their bare ribs For the infamous fibs Cramm'd into their fine manifesto. Our brethren so frantic Across the Atlantic, Who quit their old friends in a huff, In spite of their airs, Are at their last prayers, And of fighting have had quantum suff. Then if powers at a distance Should offer assistance, Say boldly, "we want none, we thank ye," Old England's a match And more for old scratch, A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Yankee! Derry down, down, hey derry down.