’Tis the rule of the service, and can’t be broke through.
Against roast, fry, or bake Colonel North in a stew
Would cry, “Where’s the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, where’s the Old English Boiled Beef?”
What with those leather collars, their throttles that lock,
And those weary camp-kettles, their hunger that mock,
Our poor British soldiers must surely hate stock,
And sing, “Blow the Boiled Beef of Old England,
Oh, Blow the Old English Boiled Beef!”
With the shako that lets the rain into his neck,