And hearing the report of guns,

And signing the report of gaolers, And making up receipts for buns

And patterns for the army tailors,

And building carriages and boats

And streets and chapels and pavilions, And regulating all the coats

And all the principles of millions,

And drinking homilies and gin,

And chewing pork and adulation,

And looking backwards upon sin,
And looking forwards to salvation.

The people, in his happy reign,

Were biest beyond all other nations;
Unharmed by foreign axe or chain,
Unhealed by civil innovations;

They served the usual logs and stones
With all the usual rites and terrors,
And swallowed all their fathers' bones,
And swallowed all their fathers' errors.

When the fierce mob, with clubs and knives, All vowed that nothing should content them, But that their representatives

Should actually represent them,

He interposed the proper checks,

By sending troops with drums and banners To cut their speeches short, and necks,

And break their heads to mend their manners.

And when Dissension flung her stain
Upon the light of Hymen's altar,
And Destiny made Hymen's chain
As galling as the hangman's halter,
He passed a most domestic life,
By many mistresses befriended,
And did not put away his wife

For fear the priest should be offended.

And thus at last he sank to rest

Amid the blessings of his people,

And sighs were heard from every breast,
And bells were tolled from every steeple,
And loud was every public throng

His brilliant character adorning,

And poets raised a mourning song,

And clothiers raised the price of mourning.

His funeral was very grand;

Followed by many robes and maces, And all the great ones of the land Struggling, as heretofore, for places;

And every loyal Minister

Was there, with signs of purse-felt sorrow, Save Pozzy, his lord-chancellor,

Who promised to attend to-morrow.

Peace to his dust. His fostering care

By grateful hearts shall long be cherished; And all his subjects shall declare

They lost a grinder when he perished. They who shall look upon the lead

In which a people's love hath shrined him, Will say, when all the worst is said,

Perhaps he leaves a worse behind him.

AYE, bear it hence, thou blessed Child,

Though dire the burden be,

And hide it in the pathless wild

Or drown it in the sea;

The ruthless murderer prays and swears;

So let him swear and pray;

Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,
And take the sword away.

We've had enough of fleets and camps, Guns, glories, odes, gazettes, Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, Huzzas and epaulettes ;

We could not bear upon our head
Another leaf of bay;

That horrid Buonaparte's dead:
Yes, take the sword away.

We're weary of the noisy boasts

That pleased our patriot throngs; We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts And tame to Dibdin's songs;

We're quite content to rule the wave
Without a great display ;

We're known to be extremely brave;
But take the sword away.

We give a shrug, when fife and drum
Play up a favourite air;

We think our barracks are become
More ugly than they were;
We laugh to see the banners float;
We loathe the charger's bray;
We don't admire a scarlet coat;
Do take the sword away.

Let Portugal have rulers twain,
Let Greece go on with none,
Let Popery sink or swim in Spain
While we enjoy the fun;