Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock
At Malwood at ease you're reclining.
Poor Primrose, our shepherd, is getting will peppered,
The flock for your rally are pining.
You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true;
Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty.
Wake up, and wake now, Sir, and give us a rouser.
Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!
Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish,
Our milch-cows are sickening or straying.