To give him a jerk or a pull, And fiat to the ground, in a trice, as we bring His dignified form, it shall merrily ding, To sound all around how we honor the king, And pay our respects to John Bull.
"This, this is the season for trying men's souls, The nerves of their arms, and the worth of their polls! So, we'll have his Majesty over the coals, And make him the first that shall run: When, heated to melting, he hides in the mould, We'll hold him there still, till new-shapen and cold; Then, off he shall go, like a tale that is told, In the voice of the thundering gun!
"The discomposed Sovereign with us shall unite, And fly at his friends for our cause in the right— To scatter his subjects—to purchase our right— The land of of opression to clear. And he, to whom, whizzing, his monarch shall come, In the form of a ball, 'mid the noise of the drum, The flashes and smoke; will have finished the sum Of his deeds as a royalist here!"
Then, flat to the earth was his Eminence cast! The dust rose above him, and mounted the blast, While a bevy of Rome's leathered sentinels passed,