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The eighteenth day of December last in Torbay we did lay -
Bold Hawke he hoisted his flag, my boys, and soon got underway;
The heavens may protect us with a sweet and pleasant breeze,
We hoisted up her topsail and soon crossed over the waves.
The twenty-eighth of that same month the weather being clear -
Bold Hawke he spied five lofty ships to the leeward of us lay;
Bold Hawke himself he mounted up in the lofty air,
His wings he spread so large, my boys, and right after them did steer.
The first broadside we gave to them we hit one on a cream -
'Twas such a glorious broadside, the likes was seldom seen;
We gave to them another like thunder loud did roar,
We sunk the French so fast, my boys, all on their native shore.
To see the Lily of France, my boys, see how she's sinking down -
With many a heavy sigh on board, with many a heavy wound;
The Rising Sun we burneth and the French Glory likewise,
We sunk the Lily of France, my boys, and the rest we made our prize.
So now the wars are over, we'll fill the sparkling bowl -
It's while we're on the sea or land, our enemies we'll control;
Here's luck to our commander both loyal, just, and true,
Likewise Sir Edward Hawke, my boys, and the Royal George's crew.
