Sons, Whose sires with Wiliam Bled

Sons, Whose sires with Wiliam Bled
air-"Scots Wha Hae"

Sons, whose sires with William bled,
Offspring of the mighty dead,
When the Popish tyrants fled,
And this fair land left free.

Yield not now to Popish guile,
trust them least when most they smile,
Sun the crafty fowler's toil,
And keep your liberty.

Loud and high their clamours rise
Of pretended miseries;
The Papish creed is only lies,
Which none but fools believe.

All the generous lion can,
That belongs of right to man
Britain puts within their span
And they ingrate receive

Now they whine as "bondsmen" poor;
Now they boast their millions o're
And forth the Popish rent they pour--
For pike and murder given.

Firm ye sons of Britain, firm
Shrink not from the gatherin' storm,
Let it come in any form
Our battle- word is --Heaven


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The Orange Plant
tune- "Rule Britannia"

When first from Eden's holy bowers
The fragrant breeze that fanned the seed
The Orange plant, Prince William's flower
Arose Britannia's noblest tree.
Arose Britannia's noblest tree,
Then hail to the Orange Prince William's tree,
And all Orange hearts beat three times three

The noblest king on England's throne
Has slept beneath its golden leaves;
O'er Holland's towers the beams have shown,
O'er Prussia's fields it proudly waves
O'er Prussia's fields it proudly waves

When other flowers pine and die,
It calmly sleeps in Erin's isle;
To bloom again in sweet July,
And fill our vales with gladdening smile,
And fill our vales with gladdening smile.

Each loyal bosom wears a branch,
It's an emblem of our nation's pride;
And when in times of deep distress,
It closed the roll of battle's tide.
It closed the roll of battle's tied

Long may its golden branches wave
It's shadows o'er the world wide;
Let no false traitor e'er deride.
Let no false traitor e'er deride.