How can he learn me to walk,
That’s walk’d this forty year, man?
Toll loll, &c.
But should the Frenchmen shew their face
Upon our waggon ways, man,
Then there upon the road, you know,
We’d make them end their days, man:
Ay Bonaparte’s sel I’d take,
And throw him in the burning heap,
And with great speed I’d roast him deed;