I find that I had lots of foes,
So I will stick to England’s Rose,
And never will surrender.
Last night as I lay on my bed,
Some dreadful things came in my head,
I dreamt that I was whacked with a birch,
And that I’d swallowed the Irish Church.
Oh, Bright and Gladstone go the rig,
The Irish Church the fishes and pigs,
That you may be choked with Parsons’ wigs,