On Some Busses Being Fitted Out for the Herring Fishery

O'er the green waves, where Britain boasts her sway,
Round the wide waste of our long slighted sea;
Let the glad tale in sacred accents swell,
Let babbling Tritons to the sea gods tell:

"Britain's at last grown conscious of her shame,
"Britain awakes her ravish'd rights to claim,
"Britain—see pale Batavians trembling at the name."

Abash'd—confounded—let the dull mynheer,
No more between our sacred banks appear!

Shall the dull Dutch exult in our disgrace,
Rifle our wedded waves before our face!
Feast on the joys of our luxuriant spouse,
And plant upon old Albion's chalky brows!
No, Britons, no—George, and your genius smile,
And new-born beauties rise propitious to your isle!