And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest,
With his empty pomp around him.
None at all were the prayers we said,
And we felt not the slightest sorrow,
But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead,
Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.
We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed
That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter.
So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head,
For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.