Come all you gallant heroes, to these few lines attend,
And when you meet a brother, make freedom with your friend,
And if you love your wife and children, for to have a happy life,
You’ll never take a gun in hand, to fight against your wife.
You tyrants of Old England, when will your race be run,
We’ll bring you all unto account, for what you’ve so wrong done.

When you see your children starving, you would wish their bellies fill’d,
But if you chance to speak a word, the soldiers must you kill,
To see them naked before you, will disturb you in your minds,
When children three years old, can say I wish they’re better times.
You tyrants, &c.

Like pris’ners we are all kept up, our work it is so hard,
And when at night they let us loose, they make us watch and ward,
To guard against those red neck’d turkies, that have pull’d us down so low,
When you meet a working man, he’s a face as white as snow,
You tyrants, &c.

If you go to the poor-house, and there lay down your case,
They’ll call you “idle vagabonds” and turn you out oth’ place,
Or if you ask for money, they’ll bid you to be gone,
“Go along you idle vagabonds, for here you shall not come.”
You tyrants, &c.

Now we’re brought down in poverty, to sorrow and distress,
And when at night we go to sleep, in bed we cannot rest,
We must never be no better till the victory is won,
Don’t you see provisions are kept up, by bayonet and gun.
You tyrants, &c.

Our clothing it is all worn out, like beggars we do stand,
While they’re eating of the best, with ruffles down to th’ hand,
And when they get their bellies full, with necks so red they’ll swell,
We’ll make them rue that very day, they work’d us by a bill.
You tyrants, &c.

These local militia they are pretty lads indeed,
Their masters dare not keep them up, nor with them dare proceed
Nor with their guns they dare not trust, for fear they should turn,
Because they know they’ve done amiss – you’ve had too little corn.
You tyrants, &c.

Ye Tyrants of Old England, you time is near at end,
I’d have you undraw your purse, and all your money spend,
Likewise yonr feather’d pheasants that’s leather’d up to th’ knees,
We’ll make their one pound notes to fly, like ballads in the street.
You tyrants, &c.

Now I’ll conclude my ditty, here’s health to them that’s good
And all true hearted subjects that’s made of patriot’s blood,
May God send them prosperity, until the cause is won,
And protect those gallant heroes, that make the pheasants run,
You tyrants, &c.