Modern Street Ballads


BORN FEBRUARY, 1788; DIED JULY 2, 1850, AGED 62.

Britannia! Britannia! what makes thee complain,
O, why so in sorrow relenting,
Old England is lost, we are borne down in pain,
And the nation in grief is lamenting.
That excellent man—the pride of the land,
Whom every virtue possessed him,
Is gone to that Home, from whence none return,
Our dear friend, Sir Robert, God bless him.

The Rich and the Poor all did him adore,
Admired, beloved, and respected,
For his Country’s right, he struggled with might,
And nothing by him was neglected.
He nobly guided the Helm of State,
The poor long have praised and blessed him,
Now tears wet each eye, while in sorrow they sigh,
He is gone, is Sir Robert, God rest him.

Sad, sad was the day, when misfortune that way,
From health, strength and vigour had tossed him,
Upon the hard ground, to receive his death wound.*
Oh mourn! mourn! Britannia, we’ve missed him.
His equal again suer we never shall find,
For every goodness possessed him,
Britannia shall weep by the tomb where he sleeps,
The patriot, Sir Robert, God rest him.

Our Queen sighed in tears, when the tidings she heard,
And her children, with hearts full of sorrow,
Saying England is done, oh! where shall we run
To meet with his equal to-morrow?
He’s not to be found upon England’s ground,
Already, already, we’ve missed him,
Britannia deplore, we’ll behold him no more,
The Glory of England, God rest him.

Talk of Canning and Pitt, for their talents and wit,
And all who upheld that high Station,
Oh! has there been e’er, such a noble Premier,
As Sir Robert before, in the Nation?
He’d by no one be led, he’d by no one be said,
No Government feared to trust him,
In every way, he carried the sway,
For the good of his country: God rest him.

At Sixty-two years of Age, cruel death did engage,
Britannia to move from her station,
From her councils and land, called that excellent man,
Sir Robert the pride of the nation.

Oh! the tears that were shed by Sir Robert’s death bed,
Some hours before life had left him,
Caused hearts to complain, in grief sorrow and pain,
He is gone, is Sir Robert, God rest him.

In the tomb where he sleeps, many thousands will weep,
And his virtuous deeds lay before ye,
And he will receive, in his regions of bliss,
A coronet braided with glory.
Though we part from him with pain, it’s no use to complain,
He is for ever gone, and we’ve missed him,
In peace may he sleep, while Britannia does weep,
For her servant, Sir Robert, God bless him.

* He died from the effects of a fall from his horse.

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