’Tis not as it was in the days gane by,
When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry.
The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’,
An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’,
An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’
Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’!
Punch.
Hey, Johnny Cumming!
(Air—“Hey, Johnny Cope!”)