The Showman:
You redcoats; ev'n your boots are not your own.
The Sergeant:
No, they're the Queen's; I represent the Queen.
The Showman:
Pipeclay your week's accounts, you red marine.
The Sergeant:
Thank you, I will. Now vanish. Right-about.
Right, kick the circus in or kick it out,
But kick us, kick us hard, we've got no friends,
We've no Queen's boots or busbies on our ends;
We're poor, we like it, no one cares; besides
These dirty artists ought to have thick hides.
The dust, like us, is fit for boots to stamp,
None but Queen's redcoats are allowed to camp
In this free country.