I’ll sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,
Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,
But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.
Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,
Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.
His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows,
Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows,
And pigs so fat that they can’t see an inch before their nose;
For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.