On the beds we repose, Nature finds sound relief,
Such comforts deserve not each jacobin thief.
CHORUS.
’Tis French Anarchy’s plan all the world to subdue,
O’er each fair peaceful land blood and bodies to strew,
If you don’t conquer them, John, by G—d they will you.
CHORUS.
May the sharp sword of justice then fatally strike,
And each jacobin’s head be transferr’d to his pike,
Such Gallic equality John Bull would like.