When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago,
    He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe,
   “You’re not afraid of shot,” said he, “you’re not afraid of wreck,
    So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called Quebec.

   “Quebec was once a Frenchman’s town, but twenty years ago
    King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know,
    To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
    As you’d look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

   “If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now. 
    Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow. 
    But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name,
    And you’ll remember Wolfe’s good work, and you shall do the same.”

    Then Farmer said, “I’ll try, sir,” and Farmer bowed so low
    That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. 
    George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer,
    Signed “King of Britain, King of France,” and sealed it with a wafer.

    Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own,
    And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne. 
    He’d two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
    And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men.

    And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs,
    With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. 
    From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle,
    She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

    The fogs are dried, the frigate’s side is bright with melting tar,
    The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar;
    The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay,
    And “Clear for action!” Farmer shouts, and reefers yell “Hooray!”

    The Frenchmen’s captain had a name I wish I could pronounce;
    A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce,
    One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine
    For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

    The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
    Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge;
    And both were simple seamen, but both could understand
    How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

    The French ship was La Surveillante, which means the watchful maid;
    She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. 
    Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. 
    On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

    Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside,
    And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. 
    A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun;
    We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.