The song was written for the London stage in 1759 by William Boyce with words by David Garrick:
Come cheer up, my lads! 'tis to glory we steer, To add something more to this wonderful year; To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Chorus: Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men; We always are ready, steady, boys, steady! We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.
Amended words
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, To add something new to this wonderful year; To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Chorus: Heart of Oak are our ships,
Jolly Tars are our men,
We always are ready: Steady, boys, Steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. We ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, They never see us but they wish us away; If they run, why we follow, and run them ashore, For if they won't fight us, what can we do more? They say they'll invade us, these terrible foes, They frighten our women, our children, our beaus, But if they in their flat-bottoms, in darkness set oar, Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. We still make them fear and we still make them flee, And drub them ashore as we drub them at sea, Then cheer up me lads with one heart let us sing, Our soldiers and sailors, our statesmen and king. Alternative first verse: Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, With heads carried high, we will banish all fear; To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves, For who are so free as the sons of the waves? Alternative last verse: Britannia triumphant her ships rule the seas, Her watchword is 'Justice' her password is 'Free', So come cheer up my lads, with one heart let us sing, Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our King .
A new version was presented on 16 April 1809 and published by Reverend Rylance.
When Alfred, our King, drove the Dane from this land, He planted an oak with his own royal hand; And he pray'd for Heaven's blessing to hallow the tree, As a sceptre for England, the queen of the sea. Chorus: The sapling shot up and stuck firm to the ground; It defied every tempest that bellow'd around; And still was it seen with fresh vigour to shoot, When the blood of our martyrs had moisten'd its root. But the worms of corruption had eaten their way Through its bark; till a Wardle has swept them away, He has sworn, no such reptiles our tree shall infest, And our patriots soon shall extirpate the nest. Yon tyrant, whose rule abject Europe bemoans — Yon brood of usurpers who sit on her thrones — Shall look on our country, and tremble with awe, Where a son of the Monarch has bow'd to the law, Now long live the Briton, who dar'd to revive The spirit which Britons scarce felt was alive; His name shall be carv'd, while of freedom we sing, On the oak that was planted by Alfred our King.