Run Through Chorus.

"Blast the traitor and his pernicious counsels."— Rowe.

Our Sovereign may boast of the millions he's spent that
Britannia may bloatedly govern the waves,
In view of the wholly unlikely event that
An eagle-eyed foe should enthral us his slaves.
The masses bow down to him cheering ad libit,
'Mid glittering banner and cannon's loud boom;
But necklet of rope, and the stark lonely gibbet,
The jeer of the mob be the anarchist's doom.

Our land is of freemen; equality's gloss is
On him who flies high and the fellow who delves:
The working man's vote is the same as his boss's,
The people are free to misgovern themselves.
And he who would alter our law or would grudge it
The hallowing sanction that ages can bring,
Need but introduce a most radical budget—
But death to who smirches the name of the King!