True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts,
For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[1].
Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray,
Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry,—Play, play, play![2]
Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare,
And mutters to himself,—Ha! gens barbare!
And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him;
Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb.
'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be
Infected with this French civility: