Oh! Take him gently from the pile
And lay him here to rest, 
And I will scorch for him a while. 
If he must burn, then burn him in my breast,
For there is fire, there is flame enough to set the world on fire. 

I'm armed and declare for a vigorous war,
By my bow and my quiver I swear,
Not a rebel to love will I spare; 
This shaft I will draw to the head 
And shoot the great Persian1 dead.

The tyrant shall die, there's one will deny him,
let him court her with crowns, she shall fly him, shall fly him, 
There's one that will fly him! 
This shaft I will draw to the head
And shoot the great archer dead.