When all their shops shall echo with affright,
Loud screams shall through St James’s turrets ring,
To see, like Eton boy, the King!
Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws
That scrape the foretops of our aching heads,
No longer England owns thy fribblish laws,
No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds.
They wait at Dover for the first fair wind,
Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast beef behind.
“Mighty barbers, mighty lords,