John Bull, outside, may groan and gride,
May fume and fret at will;
If he deems live heads his navy guide,
His sea-behests fulfil,
The works and the words of these Phantom Lords
No wonder he taketh ill.
For our ships we know how the sovereigns go.
Hard cash in hard hulls should end:
Why troop-ships are worked till they rotten grow,
We cannot comprehend;