The Colonels' Cry

Sire ! sire ! cast off the worn-out garb
Of that old Brutus ; mount thy barb,
Leap o'er the Channel, spurn and spit on
The .turbulent and faithless Briton.
Blood we must have, for without blood
Who can digest his daily food ?
Give us it ; rather than have none,
We would a brother's or our own.
Already are our brave made frantic
By their confinement to the Atlantic,
When Glory, true French Glory, calls
To batter Montezuma's walls.
Remember, 'tis your mission, sire.
To set two hemispheres a fire.