And he put down his cup, and he slapp’d his hand,
And cried, Now then the field is ours!
He pack’d his portmanteau—for England, ho!—
Reach’d Calais—and sailing over
Look’d back upon France; for he sympathized
With a nation so thoroughly Satanized—
Till he landed him safe at Dover.
He had sported his tail and his horns in a land
Of blasphemy, vice, and treason,
The vast admiration of Monsieur Frog;