They shall lie nevermore in the clover,
And bask not again in the sun;
In hip and in thigh will we smite them,
Our rulers who ruled us of old,
And nothing shall raise them or right them,
Nor acres, nor gold.
They sought us with sweet condescension,
They pledged us, a hand for a hand—
We were snobs, it is needless to mention,
And they the best blood in the land: