He will be as like his daddy as a frigate’s like a ship,
If he had got mustachoes on his upper lip.
Now to get these little nicities the taxes must be rose,
For the little Prince of Wales wants so many suits of clothes,
So they must tax the frying pan, the windows and the doors,
The bedsteads and the tables, kitchen-pokers and the floors.
Now all you pretty maidens, mind what the story says,
And try to get a son in nine months and eleven days,
That’s what folks call industry, so damsels young and fair,
Be quickly rolling on the straw with a pretty little dear.