But thy last hour is near at hand;
Before a year, a month, a week,
Is past, ’tis Fate’s severe command,
That death shall claim thy latest squeak.
And this shall be thy various doom;
Thou shalt be roasted, fry’d and boil’d,
Black puddings shall thy blood become,
Thy lifeless flesh shall pork be styl’d:
Thy ears and feet in souse shall lie;
Minc’d sausage meat thy guts shall cram;