And they’d run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.
At the York, and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,
With our fighting Cocks, sure they’d find plenty to do;
The Nag’s Head, and Lions, would cut such an evil,
And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.
At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,
The Bee-Hive and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;
With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,
They’d prick their French fingers well under the Rose.
At the Half-Moon, the Wheat-Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,